Dixon Demolition
by Surplus Imagination
Summary: It all started with a stick of dynamite and wayward brother. Daryl spent his whole life cleaning up after Merle. It had always been him and Merle. Preseries.
1. Beginnings

_**Disclaimer :**__The Walking Dead, Daryl and Merle Dixon (and the other characters) are the property of Robert Kirkman and AMC. Sadly, I do not own these characters. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended._

_**AN**: This one is all preseries. I'm guessing that Daryl is a seasoned 40 years old at the beginning of the show, in 2010. Dixon Demolition starts in 1987 with Daryl at 17 years old. Merle is nine years older. I wanted to tell a story of the brothers' close and eventful history. I hope you enjoy! Surplus Imagination_

**Dixon Demolition ****Beginnings**

2010

Daryl choked on the powdered drywall and dust that thickened the air in his enclosed space. All around, construction debris covered him like jack-straws. He was buried in rubble so far deep that only small amounts of filtered light trickled through. The weight of the fallen wall pinned most of his body down with a thousand daggers. He wouldn't be walking outta of this mess without a limp, that was for sure. And he was damn lucky not to be entirely crushed.

And he was gonna freakin' kill Merle!

With his one free hand, Daryl tugged the neck of his Dixon Demolition t-shirt up over his nose and tried to make it easier to breathe. Without a doubt, this was the worst job he ever took.

* * *

1987

"_You shittin' me, right?"_

"_Don't let your Aunt Maybelle hear you talk like that, boy. She'll slap you bald-headed. I'm being serious."_

Merle Dixon lurked just outside his uncle's office eavesdropping shamelessly. He couldn't see anything inside that office, but thanks to a crack in the door, he could hear perfectly fine. Inside the room his little brother, Daryl, was being interrogated by their hard-nosed Uncle Joe.

"_Ain't no one can control Merle. Ain't happen'n."_

"_You can. I've seen you do it."_

"_Phfft. That weren't control. I only show'd Merle wha Merle wanted. Side-stepped 'im a bit."_

_Damn righ_t. Merle basked in the thought. _Nobody controls me, but me_. Merle leaned back against the wall and smirked. He could just see scrawny, awkward Daryl fidgeting at the end of his seat. Daryl didn't like being closed in and he didn't like to talk. Uncle Joe had pinned the boy down to do both. It was only a matter of time before Daryl ran like hell.

"_Damn, boy. You sound like some ignorant, country bumpkin. It's time you learned to speak properly. I can help you with that. And Merle tells me you dropped out of high school, too."_

"_Can't drop out of what I never been to."_

"_What? You shittin' me?"_

"_Don't let Aunt Maybelle hear you talk like that. She'll slap you baldheaded ... if you had any hair!"_

_Uh, oh oh oh._ Daryl had him some balls to mock Uncle Joe. Merle would give him that. If the boy weren't careful, Uncle Joe would put a hurtin' on his ass. Uncle Joe didn't take shit from nobody. Merle knew from painful personal experience. A little worried, Merle pushed off the wall and sidled to the edge of the door. Carefully, he eased the crack open and looked inside.

"Stop that sass! You may think you're too big for a whoppin', but I got the belt that can do the job," Uncle Joe threatened, jiggling his belt noisily.

Merle tensed and waited to see Joe's next move. He watched Daryl go completely still at the threat.

"Now, son," Uncle Joe continued, mollified. "Are you trying to tell me you haven't been ever been to high school? I may be a little stupid sometimes, but last time I checked, you were seventeen." Uncle Joe eyed the boy carefully. "Granted, you're scrawny enough to pass for fourteen. Did you repeat a buncha grades? Are you still in middle school?"

"Nope," Daryl insolently replied, popping hard on the 'p'. The way he said it made Merle wanna smack the boy himself.

"Daryl, don't make me take my belt off. I don't make idle threats," the big man blustered.

_No shit_, thought Merle, gathering himself to intervene. He was definitely gonna smack Daryl upside his thick skull for not playing this right. You'd have thought the boy was soft in the head.

"_No, sir," _Daryl replied with only a small mock in his voice_. _ "Ain't in middle school." Daryl paused to see if that answer was enough. Since his uncle kept staring, he slouched back in his seat and finished. "Ain't been to class since that bitch Collins called CFS on my ass. Eighth grade, or some such." Too long, dirty blonde hair covered most of his eyes.

"CFS?"

"Children and Family Services," Daryl said with a deadpan voice.

"Children and Family...wait, I remember that. That had to be four years ago! How the hell did they let you stay out of school all that time?" Uncle Joe slapped his desk to punctuate his surprise. The solid sound made Daryl flinch noticeable. Merle tried not to notice that it made him flinch as well.

Man and teen stared at each other, each sizing the other up. Merle was about to push his way into the room when Daryl broke the silence.

"They don't got a say," he drawled softly. "I'm on my own." Another pause, they Daryl's voice gained a scornful force. "Have been ever since. I ain't never gonna go to another foster home. Ever! You turn me in, I'll run so far not even Merle can't find me." At that moment, Daryl turned his head and looked defiantly right into Merle's own eyes.

That little shit knew he was listening the whole time! Merle stared right back and silently promised Daryl that there was nowhere that boy would run that he couldn't find him. He'd find him every time. And make him pay for running!

"Jesus, son! I won't turn you in. I never thought things were so bad. I thought you were living with Merle all these years. Or with ya daddy," Uncle Joe's voice broke in. Merle didn't think that his uncle knew he was out in the hall. Uncle Joe didn't know a lot of things if he thought that Daryl would ever willingly stay with their old man.

Daryl looked back at their uncle. "Got my own place. Merle knows where it is."

Merle sure did know. It was a one roomed, ancient log cabin. It was probably first built somewhere around World War II, based on some of the emptied K-ration cans lying behind it. Daryl had found the derelict lodging years ago and had spent every penny he could spare on fixing the place up. Merle really had no idea that the boy had been living out of the place for so long.

"Fine. Fine. Long as you have someplace," Uncle Joe said, doubtfully. "Let's get back to Merle. Your brother needs you."

"Merle don't need nobody. 'Sides, he's outta jail," Daryl scoffed. Merle could see the boy start to fidget again.

"He's on probation. You know what that is, don't you?" Uncle Joe levered his huge frame up and walked over to a small refrigerator in the corner. Unable bend well at the waist, the big man had to raise one leg behind him, ballet style, in order to reach the sodas inside.

"Yes'sir."

Daryl caught Merle's eye mimed taking a picture behind his uncle's back. Merle grinned back and mimed grabbing the extended leg and tipping his uncle over. Both Dixon boys snickered behind their hands as Uncle Joe wrestled two red cans of coke free and straightened himself out. When he turned around, Daryl's game face was back on.

"Merle's on probation for two years. If he screws up and gets arrested for any damn reason, he's back in the stockade. He'll be court marshaled. He'll do at least five more years in military prison and have the rest of his life ruined." Uncle Joe plunked a can in front of Daryl and opened his own as he dropped into his seat. Beneath him, the old, wood frame groaned.

"Thought he was already court-marshaled. Thought that was a done deal."

Merle couldn't help but notice that Daryl didn't touch the can in front of him. Eyed it warily, like it was a snake and he didn't trust it. Merle wished he had a coke. Hell, he wished he had a whole six pack. Atlanta was a hell of a lot hotter than Coon Bottom.

"Son, very few things in life are a 'done deal' if you know people. Don't ask." Uncle Joe paused to chug down half his coke.

"What happens if he don't get arrested?" Daryl asked, obviously curious. Merle was curious, too.

"The charges will be dropped and he'll get a medical discharge. Merle will have a chance at a life. Do this and so will you. That's all I want for you boys. A chance. I owe it to your mother, God rest her soul."

Well, damn! Uncle Joe to the rescue. Merle backed away from the crack and went back to his place by the door. He had a lot to think about. He had wondered how the hell they let him out of the clink. Inside, the conversation continued.

"_Why me? I ain't nothin."_

"_Let me worry about that. You listening?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Daryl, I want to hire you to work for my demolition company. I want you to partner with Merle and keep him out of trouble Any kind of trouble. Capisce? You will both do whatever I ask. And, I want you to get your high school diploma-."_

"_That weren't part a nothin' a minute ago!"_

"_Shut the hell up! You listen, boy! You will get your diploma and be happy about it. Got me?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Now, I've got a trailer all set for you and Merle to live in. You both start work at seven in the morning. I'll figure the school part out with your Aunt Maybelle. She'll know what to do."_

"_Merle won't go along. No way."_

"_That's what I'm hiring you for, son. This is your new job."_

"_Won't work."_

"It will work. Now remember, your job is to keep Merle out of trouble and out of jail."

"_Impossible."_

"_No drinking. No drugs. No stealing. No whoring."_

"_Whoring ain't illegal."_

"_Yes it is. Well, everywhere outside of Coon Bottom. And most important, no fighting. That's what got him into trouble in the first place."_

"_You might as well ask me to drive him to the moon!"_

"_It might come to that. Now, go and get your brother. Head toward the house. Your Aunt Maybelle fixed us a nice lunch. We got business to discuss."_

* * *

2010

Daryl tried to steady his breathing as he waited for rescue. His ribs were a damn mess. Every cough felt like he was full of broken glass. Hell, he probably had an all-time record high on the number of ribs that were broken. Kurt currently held the record with six full breaks. Good thing that man made the best apple moonshine in the entire state of Georgia. Kurt spend the better part of a month recuperating from those record-setting breaks, by sampling his wares. When he ran out, Kurt taught Daryl how to brew to help him out. Daryl had been moon-shining ever since.

Brewing good moonshine was an art and Daryl liked to experiment. He liked to bring subtle differences to his 'shine. His current experiments were using pomegranates. Of course, Merle bitched about it. Pomegranates made the 'shine too tart. Merle liked his corn liquor sweet. Sweet as candy. Merle always did like candy.

* * *

1987

Daryl came out of the office balancing two red cans. He carefully closed the door behind him, passing off one of the cans to Merle. "Knew you'd still be here. Guess ya heard everythin'." He beckoned Merle to follow him down the hall.

Merle accepted the can with a smile. "People in the next county heard. Uncle Joe's got a mouth bigger than a herd of roosters." Merle popped the can and started chugging as he walked.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Daryl asked with a loud belch.

"It means, little brother, that I heard every word." Merle saluted Mrs. Cockburn's sour expression at the reception desk, as they left the building and headed toward Daryl's old, blue truck.

When they got to the truck, Daryl pulled a full pound pack of Twizzlers out of his shirt with a flourish. "It don't bother you, us talkin' about you like that?" Daryl balanced his open can on the rooftop, while he opened the candy. Merle snatched the bag away before Daryl could take any.

"Naw. Sticks and stones, bro," Merle drawled, his hand deep in the bag. "Where'd the sweets come from? I love me some Twizzlers!"

"Asshole," Daryl grouched and wrestled the bag back. "Found it in the 'fridge when I got this Co-cola. Uncle Joe said I could get one for you."

"And did he also give you this candy? You know that Uncle Joe keeps a sugar stash hidden from Aunt Maybelle." Merle bit down on the red stick. "You know how cranky he gets when she takes it away."

"Five-fingered discount," Daryl smirked, eating his own candy. "'Sides, I left the giant Hershey bar. Thought it would melt 'gainst my skin." Merle chucked in response.

It didn't take long for the two boys to polish off that pound bag of candy and still be thinking about lunch.

"We supposed to eat at the house," Daryl said, tossing the trash. "Aunt Maybelle is gonna be all in our business."

"Mm, mm, that woman can cook," Merle replied, stretching his torso out like a cat. "She cooks good 'nuff that I don't care if she is nosy. Since we're here, we might as well enjoy ourselves."

Daryl dug the keys out of his pocket "Uncle Joe says no more drinkin'. No more drugs. No more smokin'. And no more whorin'."

"I know for a fact that smokin' was not one Uncle Joe's requirements." Merle eyed the keys and punched Daryl in the shoulder hard enough that he dropped them. The two boys scrambled for control. Both reached the keys at the same time.

"He weren't talkin' about cigarettes, ass-weed," Daryl gritted as he tried to slam Merle into the side of the truck to make him let go. Unfortunately for Daryl, Merle's bigger bulk just made a dent in his truck's door. Merle held tight to the keys.

"That all ya got?" Merle laughed tauntingly. "And here I thought you was supposed to be in charge of me." Merle used the arm that held the keys to wrap around Daryl's middle. He held the teen in place while the other arm almost lazily moved around to put Daryl in a headlock.

Daryl panted while he tried to get out of Merle's grip. Of course, he was too damn stubborn to let go of the truck keys and let Merle win. Daryl was all too familiar with the headlock. It was Merle's signature move. Once Merle had him that way, it was game over. A few years ago, Merle kept Daryl in a headlock through an entire football game. Now, Daryl hated football.

"Won't be like that," Daryl gasped, while thrashing in Merle's grip. "You and me, bro." Daryl made himself relax and let go of the keys. "Like always."

"That's what I'm talking about." Merle chuckled meanly, while he rattled the keys. Assured of his dominance, he loosened his grip just enough.

With lightning fast reflexes born from years of getting away, Daryl struck. He rammed one elbow low into Merle's groin. It was a solid, dirty hit. When his brother reflexively doubled over, Daryl whipped himself out of the hold and snatched the keys right out of Merle's hand.

Without looking, Daryl drove himself forward breaking into a run. He didn't make it five steps before Merle ploughed into him from behind. They landed flat on the gravel-paved lot with Daryl on the bottom, sliding about two feet before stopping. Daryl quickly decided that he hated gravel, too.

"Uncle Joe never looks at things that hard. What he don't know won't hurt him," Merle crowed, pinning his little brother flat. He groped for the keys, but Daryl still wouldn't let go. With an exasperated sigh, Merle bounced a little to make the little shit let go. Daryl groaned in pain, but kept a firm grip. "And he won't know unless you the one ta tell him."

"I ain't no snitch," Daryl growled from his prone position. He tried to buck his brother off, but only succeeded in grinding himself further down into the gravel lot. "Get your fat ass off me, Merle. This hurts." With that, Daryl managed to twist himself enough and spat a pebble out of his mouth, scoring a direct hit high on Merle's cheek.

"Oh, I got a fat ass, do I?" asked Merle dangerously, his eye twitching right above the red mark.. "We'll see about that." Letting go of the keys, Merle pushed up onto his haunches, flipped Daryl onto his back, slamming him into the gravel again. While Daryl lay, stunned, Merle turned around and began to lower his hindquarters directly over Daryl's face, bracing all of his weight directly on the center of Daryl's chest.

"No, no, no!," Daryl screamed. "Merle, don't!" Daryl thrashed violently. Merle held him down with an iron grip.

"Give me the keys, Darlina, or I'm gonna drop all the way down," Merle smirked. He wiggled his rump lower and tried to ignore how his thighs were starting to cramp. "I feel some serious gas commin' on!"

"Merle! Daryl! What the hell you boys doing?" Behind them, Uncle Joe's voice boomed. "Merle, get your ass outta your brother's face. Daryl, get the hell off the ground."

Daryl and Merle froze. Looking down, Merle saw that Daryl's hand was fisted around the key ring, poised to ram right into the underside of Merle's crotch. Merle glared at Daryl while carefully standing back up.

Daryl rattled the keys in triumph. He flipped Merle a bird with his free hand, a smirk on his scraped up face.

Merle flipped his own bird and deliberately stepped right onto Daryl's gut. The air rushed out of Daryl's lungs as he curled around Merle's boot. The keys dropped on the ground with a jingle.

"You two stop fooling around. I'm about to starve to death," Joe bellowed, stomping toward the row of company trucks. Right when he was about to pass the pair, he stopped and stared at Merle until he took his boot off of Daryl's stomach. Looking down at Daryl, he simply said ,"When I said no stealing, that meant you, too. Those Twizzlers are coming outta your first paycheck." Then he stomped away without another word, got into his truck and drove off.

Merle helped Daryl to his feet by picking him by the shoulders and giving him a shake. A shower of small pebbles dislodged from baggy clothes and tumbled to the ground. Daryl helped out by flicking out the last few bits embedded in his skin.

"I think I'm gonna like working for Uncle Joe," Merle said, climbing into the driver's side of the tired, blue truck.

Daryl just sighed and climbed into the passenger side. His whole body was aching from the tussle on the ground. He'd never admit it, but Merle had hit him like a freight train. Daryl wondered if he could skip lunch and curl up in the truck for a nap.

"He sure had your number, you little sneak thief. Told you not to take a fat man's sugar stash," Merle cackled as he cranked the truck and started on down the road. "Gonna come outta your paycheck! Ha ha ha ha ha…."

"Shut the hell up, Merle," Daryl snapped. He turned slightly away from Merle, trying to find a comfortable spot on the bench seat. He was gonna regret this job. He just knew it.

Beside him, Merle rolled the window down and was singing along with the radio, slightly off-key. Daryl could hear him keeping the beat with his hand just out the window. The familiar sounds were comforting on a level that Daryl didn't realize he was needing. With all that humming in the background, Daryl felt safe enough to fall asleep.

* * *

2010

Daryl lurched out of his doze with start. Somewhere above him, Daryl could hear Merle calling out for him frantically. Hollering his name over and over and over. Daryl tried to answer, but his lungs just choked on powdered glass again. Pain ripped through his chest.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Daryl gave up trying to call out. It was just too hard. He had to let Merle know where he was, if he ever wanted to get out of this.

And he did want out. It weren't just that he was having a shit day all cause of Merle had been playing with dynamite. It weren't just because every goddamned bone in his body hurt. It weren't only that he had a big, ole mojo-marinated pork roast with black beans slow-cooking in the crock pot, that Aunt Maybelle dropped off. Hell, he even had a leftover half-pan of double thick brownies to look forward to.

Daryl just had to get out of this because tonight was the start of the fall TV premiere week. He had been waiting nigh on five goddamn months, to find out what was gonna happen between Booth and Bones after they went separate ways last season. What was House and Cuddy gonna do after Cuddy told House she loved him. And why Sam was standing outside of Dean's and Lisa's house, when he was supposed to be sealed in hell with Lucifer and Michael. He had a twenty riding on a bet with Merle on the outcome of that one.

He'd be damned if he didn't have the chance to kick Merle's ass into next week and win that bet!

With a last bone-racking cough, Daryl felt around the rubble until he got his one free hand on something metal. After a few excruciating tugs, he managed to pull in free. It was a short piece of rebar. Good enough.

Gripping it the best he could, Daryl slammed the rebar against the leaning wall. He kept hitting different spots until one rang with the clang of metal on metal. Grunting with the pain of effort, Daryl hit that sweet spot, over and over and over, until he heard the shout he was waiting for.

"Hold on, little brotha! I'm coming!"

* * *

1987

Daryl sat on a half-rotted log in the clearing behind his aunt and uncle's house. Evening was just setting in. All around the clearing, Daryl could make out the tiny, hopeful flashes of lightning bugs. Fruit bats whirled and dove silently in the dimming air above.

"Gawd-damn, boy! The hell you doin' out here? Feel like feeding every damn mosquito in the county?"

Daryl turned and watched his brother wade through the weedy grass, a six pack of beer under one arm. As he got closer, Daryl could see him slap at a cloud of flying insects around his head. Merle always did draw bugs.

"Nothin's biting me," Daryl replied with a shrug. It was true, for some reason Daryl was never plagued with bug bites and stings. "Guess I don't taste good."

Merle just snorted and half collapsed next to him on the log. With a heavy sigh made for someone twice his age, Merle popped two cans of beer out of the plastic and handed one to his brother. In silence, both boys cracked their beer open and drank deeply. Around them, the cicadas sang a heavy welcome to the night.

"Joe and Maybelle have been at me the last hour," Merle finally said after his third beer. "Like I need a new set of parents at my age," he grumbled.

"What for?" Daryl wanted to know. He finished off his second can and reached for his third. Merle beat him to the grab.

"Hey! That's my beer!" Daryl slurred slightly. Aunt Maybelle's patch job on Daryl's scraped chin dangled by half the adhesive. No doubt the boy had been picking at it ever since.

"Look at you. Drunk on two beers," Merle shook his head sadly, obviously amused. "Makes me ashamed to call you a Dixon."

"Ain't drunk, you asshole. Gimme back my beer," Daryl growled, feeling a little woozy.

"That so?" Merle smirked. "Tell you what, prove it and I'll give the beer back."

"You'll give it back," Daryl repeated uncertainly, as he climbed to his feet. It took a lot of effort to stop the slight sway from side to side. He willed his feet to be tree roots and slowly looked up to glare at his brother.

"Damn, there must be an echo." Merle laughed. He popped open the last beer and cradled it between his thighs. Then he pulled a rolled smoke from his pocket and lit up. "Hell, yes. You pass the test and I'll give you the beer."

"What kinda test?" Daryl could smell the unique odor come off of Merle's smoke. It didn't smell like no Marlboros. Uncle Joe was gonna be pissed if he caught them.

"Same test as all the cops give." Merle took a drag and let it out slow. "All ya gotta do is stand on one leg and whistle Yankee Doodle." Merle offered the smoke to Daryl who shook his head 'no'.

"Thought you was supposed to walk a white line with your eyes closed," Daryl shot back, thinking. Hell if he could remember how Yankee Doodle went. A hundred different bird calls, yes. Stupid children's song, no. Shaking his head slightly, Daryl switched to considering which leg might be best to balance on.

"Naw. That's just for TV," Merle snickered, drawing deep again. "Don't like Yankee Doodle? How about William Tell's Overture?" He said the last part with a little cough.

"The what?" Daryl looked up, bewildered.

"The theme song to the Lone Ranger," Merle cackled and slapped at mosquitoes. He had forgotten how much fun it was being around his gullible little brother.

Daryl brightened. That one he knew. Daryl took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Carefully, he unconsciously centered himself and lifted his left knee. With a clear, sure sound, Daryl liltingly whistled a steady rendition of the song. When he was done, Daryl opened his eyes and gave Merle a wide grin, before putting his left foot back on the ground.

Merle was astounded. He hadn't expected that! Daryl was supposed to have provided some bumbling entertainment and maybe fallen flat on his ass. Instead, Daryl seemed to go all Kung Fu and find some sort of inner Zen standing there. Shit if that didn't chafe his ass. Disgruntled, Merle carefully stubbed out his smoke on the bottom of his boot and stowed the remainder carefully in his shirt pocket for later. Then he blew the last puff of smoke out and gave his brother a good shove.

Laughing, Daryl went down in the tall weeds with a thump. "I win," he chimed.

"Hell, you did," Merle grumbled. "I'm drinkin' ya damn beer, ya goddamn ballerina."

"Keep the beer," Daryl called from the weeds. "Probably all warm by now anyway."

All around him, the night came alive. Daryl lay on his back and stared up at the stars. He felt pretty good with a rare full belly and his brother nearby. His head swam a little and made the stars waver.

Daryl never could hold his alcohol. He'd never admit it, but those two beers were more than enough to give him a buzz. Off to the right, he could hear the odd chirp of a flying squirrel high in the trees. Almost immediately, off to the left he heard the jiggy 'whoop' of a couple of mating owls. At his feet, Daryl could hear Merle slurp down the last can of beer.

"Merle, you think we're doing the right thing by staying here?"

"Fuck if I know."

Daryl heard the sound of the can crunching. A distant ping told him that Merle had tossed the can away.

"You gonna work like Uncle Joe says?"

"Guess so. Better than rotting in that jail cell."

Daryl pushed himself up on his elbows to look at his brother. The darkness all but covered his face. "Then you gotta do things right," Daryl said, earnestly. "You need to lay off the bad stuff and earn some money."

Merle lumbered to his feet and stretched. One by one, the bones in his spine cracked. "I know what I have to do. Ain't like I've never worked before, Princess." Merle reached a hand out to Daryl and pulled him to his feet. "I'll do what I have to do. But I'm doing it my way," he grumbled.

"That's what I'm 'fraid of," Daryl sighed. He picked a few weeds out of his greasy hair and tossed them to the ground with a sense of foreboding.

"No need to fear, little brotha," Merle chuckled. "Ole Merle has it covered."

Merle slapped Daryl on the arm and started to walk out of the clearing.

"Hey, asshole," Daryl called. "You're goin' the wrong way."

Merle stopped and looked back. The clearing looked the same on all sides; dark and treey. "Fine, Einstein. Which way do I go?"

"This way," Daryl beckoned before starting off. "I always know where I am."

Merle snorted before following. "Them's famous last words."

Truth was, the little prick always could find his way around in the woods. Ole Merle just might have to teach him a little lesson, or two.

* * *

2010

"Goddammit, Daryl! Answer me!"

Merle Dixon threw another huge hunk of broken concrete off to one side. Two different men scattered to avoid the debris. He grabbed a piece of rebar sticking out of the rubble and started pulling. The effort caused a rumble below them.

"Wait, Merle. Wait!" Kurt, the foreman, cried out. He stilled Merle's frantic pulling with one gloved hand. "We're gonna collapse the whole damn structure right down on top of him. I know you're strong, but Daryl needs you to be smart."

"The whole damn structure is already on top of him," Merle shot back. "I heard him not a minute ago. I swear!"

Kurt looked from a panic-stricken Merle to the broken building. The whole thing had gone down with one ill placed explosion. There was little hope that the younger Dixon survived. "Merle-"

"Shut up and listen," Merle whispered, gripping Kurt's sleeve. Faintly, Kurt could hear a rhythmic pounding of metal on metal.

"I'll be dammed," Kurt grinned. "The little shit has got nine lives," he laughed. Together, the two men carefully located the most likely place the sound was coming from.

"Hold on, little brotha! I'm coming!"

Merle Dixon snatched up a shovel and started to dig.

_Tbc…._

**_AN: Howdy! I'm finally getting this story going. The various chapters should tie into Daryl's back-flashes in _****_If It Weren't For Bad Luck, I'd Have No Luck At All_****_. Personally, I'm looking forward to the chapter that will include Mexico. It's all preseries. Of course, you definitely don't need to read that one to understand this one. I'll post each weekend. I hope you all will come along for the ride._**

**_I hope to hear from you all. Suggestions are treasure! Toss me a few bones._**

**_Thank you for reading!_**

**_Surplus Imagination_**


	2. First Day, part 1

_**Disclaimer :**__The Walking Dead, Daryl and Merle Dixon (and the other characters) are the property of Robert Kirkman and AMC. Sadly, I do not own these characters. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended._

**Dixon Demolition**

**First Day, part 1**

2010

Above him, Daryl could hear the muffled sounds of voices and digging. Wearily, he dropped the piece of rebar and let his tired arm relax. All he had to do now was wait. Merle would dig him out and then they'd go home. They'd drink a beer, eat Aunt Maybelle's pork roast and watch TV.

With a haggard sigh, Daryl let his eyes drift shut until a cough roused him awake. Deep from within his strained lungs, fluid bubbled up and out. Unable to move much, Daryl levered up on his free arm and hacked up the offending stuff. The fit left him spent and shivering, the metallic taste of blood thick in his mouth.

Daryl couldn't help but wonder at the feeling of cold. It must be some time of shock, cause the day had been hotter-than-hell so far. Dazed, Daryl coughed again, steeling himself from the tremors. This whole thing reminded him of that first day of work, twenty-three years ago. It was hotter-than-hell then, too.

* * *

1987

Daryl had one nerve left and Merle was on it.

"Yo! Kid! Boss wants to see ya."

Daryl dropped a bag of concrete mix on the growing pile and wearily mopped his forehead with the bottom of his best t-shirt. It was two o'clock in the afternoon and blazing hot. The shadeless construction yard seemed to reflect the burning sun above and double the heat. It was like working in a frying pan.

"Be right there," Daryl called back, wiping his sweaty hands on the back of his dirty pants. He practically staggered over to the water cooler and filled his Big Gulp cup with a picture of KISS on the outside. He drank one 64 oz cup straight down, and filled another to pour over his head.

It was their first damn day on the job and already Merle had screwed him over.

Things had started out pretty okay. Both of them got up and out to work, ten minutes early. Daryl was kinda looking forward to this new job, one that he stayed at all day. He thought it might be nice to have a regular schedule.

Daryl had been working one job or another, since he could remember. Usually he went from place to place, doing the small jobs each location warranted.

The people of Coon Bottom had been reluctant to hire a Dixon in the beginning. The name, Dixon, had a bad reputation. But it didn't take long for folks to realize the youngest Dixon worked hard and long for very little money. Most people were willing to overlook the Dixon name when they came out ahead.

Most of the jobs were outside. Daryl cleaned cages at a poultry farm. Mucked stalls at the boarding stable for the rich people. He mowed lawns, cleaned pools and could be counted on to turn his hand at just about any dirty job, no one else wanted to do. By the time he was fourteen, Daryl had a regular client base. It was enough to keep him fed and keep gas in his truck.

Daryl was used to working hard. Small for his age, he had earned the thick calluses of an older person. He was good with his hands, too. His underdeveloped body was lean and strong. However, he weighed a mere buck twenty-five, soaking wet.

Uncle Joe had started the Dixon brothers digging post-holes for a new fence line the first couple of hours. He then moved them on to unloading a semi-trailer half-full of seventy pound bags of concrete mix. It was back-breaking work.

It didn't take Merle fifteen minutes unloading, before he found a way to shive off, leaving Daryl alone with over two hundred bags left. Daryl had been at it ever since. He was running himself ragged trying to do both their work. Last thing he wanted to do was piss Uncle Joe off and get Merle sent back to jail. It didn't mean that he was happy about it.

Daryl refilled his cup one last time and headed toward the big, blue warehouse that housed Uncle Joe's office. He couldn't help but look forward to cooling down in the air conditioning inside. He hadn't had a break all day. Maybe find a hidden corner and chill out for a minute.

His path took him past several work crews. Dixon Demolition employed more than fifty people. That was at least forty-nine more than Daryl was used to dealing with at any one time. As he past the groups of four or six workers, they all stopped and watched him walk. It was disturbing. Daryl couldn't help but wonder why they even cared enough to stare. He just ducked his chin and walked faster, KISS cup sloshing water onto the ground.

By the time he arrived at the office, Daryl was practically running. He slid into the open doorway and slunk down the hall. He hated being gawked at. Hated any attention at all. Usually it meant he was about to get his ass beat, or his pockets emptied. Daryl didn't know which might happen here at the company. With his luck, it would probably be both.

For once, sour-faced Mrs. Cockburn was absent. Having missed lunch, Daryl snatched up an apple from a bowl full of fruit on her desk, before continuing on. Three huge bites later, the small apple was gone. Daryl paused, retraced his steps and snatched up a second apple, an orange, a banana and a big yellow pear. Laden, he stuffed the fruit into his baggy cargo pant's pocket and then rearranged what was left in the bowl to cover the missing. Satisfied, Daryl bit into the pear hungrily, sucking the juice up before it could drip..

As he neared the office door, Daryl could hear Uncle Joe and Merle inside. Not sure what he was gonna find, Daryl decided to finish his fruit before going in. It was kinda of a funny karma, to him, that he took up the same post as Merle had the day before. Daryl smirked to himself, as he munched.

"_Kurt tells me that you've been on break for two hours."_

Daryl rolled his eyes. It didn't surprise him that Merle's been gone that long. It was probably closer to three hours, lazy bastard.

_"Kurt that tall fella?"_

"_That's him. Kurt's my head foreman. It's his job to keep the crews running."_

Daryl had seen the tall guy checking up on his progress. The man looked like Lurch from the Munsters. Tall and thin with a big, square head. Daryl listened and gnawed on the pear until there was nothing left but the stem and core.

_"I'll tell you what I told him. I was just finishing my second break. Was heading back to finish the unloading."_

_"You been drinking, son?"_

"_Sure have been. Hotter than hell out there. Can dry a man out. Got to thank you for all them water barrels ever'where. Been drinkin' my fill."_

Daryl looked around for someplace to put the two cores. He saw a trash can near the other end of the hall. Sizing up the distance, Daryl launched first one, then the other core in a high arch. When they both hit the can solidly, Daryl threw up his arms and silently cheered.

Like an echo, from inside the room there came the sound of an empty bottle tossed on the desk. Daryl dropped his arms and looked toward the office. That was a familiar sound. A very familiar sound. With a sigh, Daryl moved toward the door.

"_What the hell were you thinking, son? Kurt tells me-"_

"_I was thinkin' that hard work deserved a break. You tellin' me that we don't get no breaks?"_

_"Merle, I went out on a limb for you, and here you are, drinking on job."_

"_Don't be like that, Uncle Joe. It weren't really drinkin'. It was just enough to wet my whistle."_

Daryl winced. He should have been keeping a closer eye on Merle. Daryl wiped his sticky hands on his pants and reached for the door knob. He was gonna go in and apologize to Uncle Joe. Then he was gonna kick the shit outta Merle….or at least try. Squaring his shoulders, Daryl started to turn the knob and then froze.

"_We had an agreement, son. A plan. You promised me, for Daryl's sake."_

What the…? An agreement? A plan? This didn't sound like the stuff Uncle Joe told him yesterday. Daryl's face scrunched up in confusion. Did he miss something?

"_Daryl's just fine. The lil' bastard's tough as nails. As I was saying, I was on my way back to finish that trailer off, when that big Polack got right in my face."_

_**Twack!**_

_"Damn, Joe! That hurt. What the fuck was that for?"_

Daryl turned the knob very slowly and pulled it open a crack. Inside, Daryl could see Merle sitting in the same chair he had occupied yesterday. His brother was holding the top of his left ear. Daryl hated to get his ears smacked. Ears hurt just about as much as hands. Or toes. Daryl glowered at his uncle. Smackin' Merle's ears weren't part of no deal he was aware of. He watched Uncle Joe stare down Merle with a mighty frown on his round face.

"Kurt is one of my oldest employees. You will show him some respect, or I'll show you the door," Uncle Joe snarled and pointed a finger right at Daryl's surprised face. Lucky for Daryl, Uncle Joe hadn't been looking where he was pointing.

Daryl backed up a bit, hoping to stay hidden. He watched Merle shift in his seat and pull his hand off his ear, inspecting it like he expected to see blood. Daryl got angrier at the sight. Uncle Joe must have hit Merle hard.

"No need for that," Merle placated, touching his ear again. "Didn't mean nothin' by it. Kurt's the boss. Got it."

"And he's not a Polack, I mean Polish," Uncle Joe blustered, all red in the face. "I think his parents were from Russia."

"Whatever," Merle threw back, unconcerned. Daryl knew that Merle couldn't care less if the insults he threw around were true or not. Merle just liked to piss people off.

Uncle Joe walked back over to the desk, picked up the bottle and pitched it in the trash can. "I'm completely serious, Merle. No more screw ups."

"Ha, ha, ha," Merle laughed. "You gotta know that Dixons always screw up, Uncle Joe. It's a family trait."

Uncle Joe turned at looked at Merle with irritation. "Shut the hell up, Merle. Mrs. Horvath called again today."

"You let me worry about the old biddy," Merle said, touching his ear again. "Ain't nothin' gonna happen."

Mrs. Horvath? She was one of Daryl's regulars. He did a buncha things for the old lady and was happy to do them. She was damn near eighty and still baked her own bread. Daryl liked working for her. He rarely ever asked for any money, too. Mrs. Horvath usually paid for his chores with fresh, hot bread seasoned with some of the best stories Daryl ever heard. What could she want? Why would Mrs. Horvath call Uncle Joe? Deep in thought, Daryl accidentally bumped the door.

"Looks like we got company," Uncle Joe sighed. "Come on in, Daryl."

Caught, there wasn't much to do except go on in. Daryl shoved his questions about Mrs. Horvath down and opened the door all the way. He'd ask Merle about it later, when they were alone. Daryl schooled his face to a blank look. It wouldn't do to let his uncle know he'd been eavesdropping.

"You wanted to see me?" Daryl asked, stepping into the room. He didn't go but a couple of steps when the expressions on both Merle and Uncle Joe's faces stopped him.

They both wore the expression of stunned surprise.

"What's the matter?" Daryl asked, nervously. "Somethin' wrong?"

Merle was the first one to break. Stunned surprise quickly turned into a bone-jarring laugh.

"You got somethin' in your pocket, or ya just happy to see us," Merle brayed, thumping the arm of his chair. Across the room, Uncle Joe snorted and looked away.

Daryl looked at both men like they had lost their minds. Then he looked down and checked his pant's pocket. To his horror, he realized what was wrong.

All that pilfered fruit bunched up in Daryl's front pocket of his worn-out cargo pants. The apple and orange were down at the bottom with the banana resting on top, pointing straight up. The outline of the fruit strained the volume of the threadbare fabric. There was no mistaking what the fruit resembled.

"Damn, bro! Ya making me jealous here," Merle howled. "Makes me proud to be ya brother!"

Blushing to his roots, Daryl fumbled in his pocket to remove the fruit. In his embarrassment, Daryl couldn't quite get the banana out. This only made Merle roar with laughter louder. At this point, Uncle Joe broke down and started laughing, too.

Mortified, Daryl finally yanked the banana free, flung out the rest of the fruit and fled.

2010

Merle plunged his shovel in the broken rubble again and again. He and Kurt and the other two guys were making pretty quick progress digging down. Every couple of shovelfuls, Merle would call out and try to get Daryl to answer him.

"Yo, Princess! Could use a little help here. Get ya lazy ass movin' and dig ya way up."

"Darlina, you awake down there? Fuckin' answer me!"

"You don't answer me, ya little shit, and I'm gonna eat ever last one of those brownies. And I don't even like chocolate. I'm gonna eat 'em and toss the crumbs all over ya bed."

"Merle, hush." Kurt placed a hand on Merle's arm, stopping his progress. "Listen."

The four men froze and listened intently. Faint, but unmistakable, was the sound of someone coughing their guts out. The harsh hacks made Merle wince in sympathy.

The agonizing sound wasn't coming from directly below them. It was really coming from off to the left.

"Goddammit," Merle snarled. "We're digging in the wrong damn place!"

_Tbc…_

_**AN: I hope y'all are enjoying the story. It's been more challenging than I thought keeping the tone completely light. There is so much in Daryl's past that I can imagine, and want to explore. I hope you'll let me if I'm doing it right. Drop me a line **_

_**Thanks for reading! **_

_**Surplus Imagination**_


	3. Kaboom! First Day, part 2

_Disclaimer :__ The Walking Dead, Daryl and Merle Dixon are the property of Robert Kirkman and AMC. Sadly, I do not own these characters. Kurt, Joe and Maybelle are mine. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended._

_AN: Now we get to the heart of the first day. Thanks! Surplu**s**_

**Dixon Demolition**

**Kaboom!**

**First Day, Part 2**

2010

"Stop," Kurt barked out at the six men he had digging. Just outside the widening hole, Merle lay on the ground, one ear pressed into the dirt, listening. "Stop! The ground is giving over here." Kurt looked at Merle searchingly, hoping for good news. Around him, the men stilled, watching.

"Still hear coughing," Merle said worriedly. "It's faint, but means he's still awake down there." Merle pushed up off the ground and joined Kurt in the hole.

"It's been more than an hour. I'm worried about his damn air." Merle spun around taking in the whole demolition site, shaking his head. "We're going at this the hard way. What the fuck would Daryl do?" he asked himself.

Kurt nodded. What would Daryl do if it was one of them? Kurt had a great deal of respect for the self-educated man. Kurt was the named engineer. He was the one that had degrees decorating the office walls. He ought had all the answers. But in the the heat of this moment, all those years of college were failing him. He couldn't help wonder what course Daryl would take. The man always had a different angle, a different approach. He had surprised Kurt from the first day they met.

What _would_ Daryl do, Kurt asked himself bitterly. Thunderstruck, Kurt clapped Merle on the shoulder, hard.

"He'd come at this sideways."

* * *

1987

Daryl was deep inside the semi-trailer and working like a steam engine by the time Merle got back 'off-break'. After his brother had high-tailed it outta of there, Uncle Joe had doubled up on the threats. Merle had heard it all before.

_You're better than this... blah blah blah...you don't want to go down that path…..bitch bitch bitch…..you'll end up dead in a gutter….give me a break! _

As usual, Merle took pride in letting it go in one ear and right out the other.

Right now, though, he had to deal with Daryl in a snit. Boy was born perfecting the art of throwing a fit, the little pansy-ass that he was. Merle watched Daryl drag the seventy pound bags from the back of the trailer to a pile near the edge. And he didn't miss the filthy look Daryl gave him before turning back to retrieve another sack.

_Goddammit. _ Merle guessed that Daryl expected him to unload those sacks and haul them over to the rows by the shed, like a good little sheep. Merle hated sheep. They didn't even taste good.

Why the hell hadn't they just backed the trailer up closer to where they wanted the shit? Merle shook his head at the apparent stupidity of others.

Merle really, really didn't want to unload those sacks. They were heavy as shit. But, looking around, it seemed that his overeager brother had already done more than half the work. That pleased and bothered Merle in equal parts. He was glad that he didn't have to unload all of them, but damn, those sacks had to weigh just about as much as the weasely little bastard.

With a long suffering sigh, Merle pulled out the abandoned pile of fruit and dumped it in a clear spot, just inside the trailer door. "Hey, Darlina. Getcha ass ova here," Merle barked out. "Time for a real man to take over."

"Fuck you, Merle," Daryl spat over his shoulder, dragging yet another sack. "I don't see no 'real man' here." Daryl dropped the sack and glared. "All I see is a lazy sack of shit." Daryl glanced at the pile of fruit and blushed. Then he squared his shoulders and spat on the floor by Merle's arm. "Why ya here, Merle? Can't find no corner to hide 'till quittin' time?"

"Always doing things the hard way, ain'tcha little brother," Merle chuckled. He turned around and boosted himself up to sit on the edge. "Come on. Take a break. I brought ya back the naner an' apple." Merle leaned to one side and fished out a lopsided Snicker bar. "Figured ya missed lunch, since ya acting all prissy-like."

"That ain't all I'm missin'," Daryl said as he lowered himself down to sit next to Merle with a long groan. "Where the hell is my orange?"

"Think of it as the cost of transportation," Merle said with a grin. Daryl, predictably, just rolled his eyes.

Merle watched as Daryl peeled the banana and opened the candy bar. Without hesitation, Daryl took a bite of each and chewed them together.

"That's disgusting," Merle commented with a grimace. He curled his lip and frowned.

"Naw, s'good," Daryl mumbled through another mouthful. "Better with peanut butter, though."

"You'd probably eat dog food if it was covered in peanut butter," Merle mused, remembering Daryl as a toddler covered in the stuff. The memory of trying to wrestle away a mostly empty jar of Peter Pan from a screaming two year old Daryl was one of his good ones. Merle didn't have too many good ones and he liked to hang on to them.

Daryl only nodded his agreement. "Done that," he admitted with a smirk, mouth full.

The brothers sat and threw suggestions of food that they'd actually eat if it was covered with peanut butter, each round more outrageous than the last. Then they argued the merits of one brand over another. Merle felt the tension between them ease. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tall guy, Kurt, lurking in the shadows.

"Break's over," Merle declared. He levered himself off the trailer edge and on to the ground. "Got an idea. Be right back."

"Merle?"

Merle turned around at the pitiful sound. Damn, if that tone didn't cut straight through him.

"Are ya gonna come back this time?" Daryl looked all young and hopeful.

"Ye of little faith," Merle declared with outstretched arms. He spun on his heels and marched off with a purpose.

When Merle came back, he was sporting a black eye and driving a forklift. Relieved, Daryl eagerly helped unload the sacks onto the raised forklift prongs. Together, the brothers figured out all the forklift functions and made quick work of the sacks.

Daryl was just finished sweeping out the semi-trailer with a big push broom when the foreman, Kurt, stalked up. Daryl could see the tall man's face was a thundercloud of pissed-off.

"Uh oh, little brother," Merle called from finishing by the shed. "Here comes the KGB." Merle dropped the last sack into place and gave the stack a firm slap. A small cloud of concrete dust bloomed. "Can I help ya there, Boss?"

Kurt tossed a 'come here' motion at Daryl and came to a stop in front of the shed. At least a foot taller, the foreman loomed over Merle and crowded his space. There was no mistaking the body language.

"You got a problem, Dixon?" Kurt growled. The big man's voice was a deep baritone laced with menace.

"I gotta problem you getting in my face, Boss," Merle replied evenly, not backing down. He could see Daryl hop down from the trailer and quietly unscrew the wooden handle from the push broom. "You want to tell me what this lil' pissin' contest is all about?"

"You want to explain the black eye?" Kurt pushed at Merle with a snarl. "Where did you get the forklift?"

Daryl sidled around the back of the angry foreman, watching the two men face off. This wouldn't be the first time he had to back up Merle in a fight. Always smaller than his opponents, Daryl learned to fight dirty at an early age. He gripped the broom handle tighter and prepared to step in, aiming at the back of the foreman's knees. Daryl knew Uncle Joe would be livid, but he wouldn't let Merle face a man, practically twice his size, alone.

"The black eye?" Merle asked, honestly confused, but no less tense. "You wanna know how I got this sumbitch, or what I did to the fucker that dealt it." He backed up a step and rubbed his lower lip. "Weren't no one that worked here."

This time, it was Kurt that looked confused. Daryl started to relax, thinking the danger was over when Kurt bowed back up and took a step forward.

"You trying to tell me you weren't responsible for Mendez having to go get his head stitched up?" Kurt accused, poking Merle in the chest.

Merle slapped the hand away. "I got no idea what you're talking about. Who the hell is Mendez?" Merle managed to get a look off to see Daryl's position. He made the smallest of hand motions to tell Daryl to hold off.

Kurt responded by grabbing Merle by the shirt and practically lifting him off his feet. "That's the man you threw off the forklift to bring it here. Cracked his skull and left him in the dirt."

Merle looked doubly confused, pulled up on his toes. "You got it wrong, Boss. The forklift was sitting out by itself. The keys were just danglin'." Merle raised up both hands in a gesture of peace. "Honest Injun," he smiled disarmingly.

"Then how did you get the black eye?" Kurt asked, unconvinced.

"Had a dust-up with a friend of mine," Merle drawled. "Out in the street by the food truck." He plucked at Kurt's oversized hands. "You wanna let go here?"

"Who was it?"

Both men turned their heads to take in Daryl relaxing his batter's stance. The younger Dixon didn't look happy. Kurt eyeballed the ready broom handle and started reevaluating the safety of his calves. Wisely, he decided to let Merle go. The older Dixon dropped back down on his heels and stumbled.

"Bob Slade," Merle said as he recovered. "Old friend. He owes me."

"Not likely," Daryl muttered, dropping the broom handle with a clang. He walked past a wary Kurt and snatched a bag out of Merle's shirt pocket. "Slade's his asshole dealer," Daryl growled, tossing the baggie of marijuana at Kurt's feet.

Daryl looked right up in Kurt's eyes with a steel-blue gaze of his own. "Merle don't never back down from a fight. If he had clocked your man, Mendez, he would have said so," he said matter-of-factly. After a moment, Daryl moved off, picked up the handle and started screwing it back in the broom.

Feeling strangely dismissed by the kid, Kurt bent over and pocketed the baggie. He'd get rid of it somehow. And he'd figure out what to tell Joe. Turning to Merle, he repeated his last question. "Why'd you take the forklift?" It sounded lame, even to his own ears. In response, Merle chuckled.

"Ain't the point of work to get the job done?," Merle asked, all reasonable like. He made a sweeping gesture to the double stacked rows of concrete mix. Each row neat and orderly. "One semi-trailer of fuckin' heavy concrete mix stacked and ready."

Kurt nodded, feeling unsettled Looking up, he pulled off his cap and ran fingers through his wavy blonde hair. "Next time, you sign for the equipment before taking it."

"Yeah, Boss," Merle answered with a shit-eating grin. "Will do."

Shoving his Dixon Demolition cap back on his head, Kurt took a step closer. "And Merle," he said low and quiet.

Merle dropped his grin and moved a little closer, actually listening for once.

"I catch you on the job any time with any type of drugs, I'll call the cops," Kurt promised and moved away.

Merle saluted with two fingers flicked off his forehead, before turning away to cover the rows with heavy, sheet plastic. Kurt figured Merle would flip him off the moment his back was turned. He was okay with that. Merle forgotten for the moment, Kurt walked up to the kid. Hell if he could remember the kid's name.

"Pretty brave move on someone three times your size," Kurt commented, looking at Merle's little brother with a bit of respect. The kid didn't look old enough to shave, much less work in the yard. "I could have stomped your ass into the ground and not broken a sweat.

"I weren't worried," Daryl shot back. "Ya'll all the same size when ya laid out on ya backs."

Kurt couldn't help but nod his agreement, amused. "It's getting late. Use that forklift to move those doors over to the salvage yard. Clean up the shed and head home," he instructed while moving off. It just struck him funny that he gave the orders to the kid for the pair of them, just like the kid was the one in charge.

He watched the kid climbed up onto the forklift to stand at Merle's back. The two brothers confused him. Kurt had known Joe for fifteen years. Before this week, he had never known Joe to say anything good about his twin brother, William 'Buck' Dixon. Hell, Kurt didn't even know that Will had two sons. If he had, he would have figured them to be cut from the same bad-news cloth as their sorry, son-of-a-bitch old man. He would have to keep his eye on these two.

As the engine fired up, Kurt called out a warning. "When you clean up the shed, be careful of the dynamite," he hollered. To his dismay, Merle was the one to turn and smile.

"Dynamite?" Merle asked with a grin.

* * *

2010

When Kurt got back with the blueprints, Merle all but snatched them out of his hands. Spread out and orientated to match, the plans clearly outlined all the supporting walls and rooms. Tracing the lines, Merle and Kurt located the place they had been digging and then estimated where they thought Daryl might be buried.

"See this section?" Kurt pointed out. "When the explosions hit, all three floors would have come straight down, neat as a pin. This section would have been pretty clear. That's where I think Daryl is." Kurt looked up, meeting Merle's concerned gaze. "I think our boy realized what was happening and headed for the safest place, right there in the center sweet spot."

"Yep, Darlina always did have reflexes of a spazzed-out cat," Merle agreed, rubbing his jaw. "If this is where he went down, then we oughta dig ova here. Go down about eight or ten feet and dig sideways. Should come right up beside him. No structural walls in the way. Nothing to come down on his head." Behind the men, the wail of sirens filled the air.

"About time emergency services showed up," Kurt spat, placing rocks on the corners of the plans to hold them down. "Took them long enough."

"We best get to work. Got no time to explain our plans to all of them," Merle sneered at the flood of men in protective gears piling out of the trucks. "We get started, they'll just join in, like usual."

Merle turned and whipped his leather gloves out of his back pocket with a snap.

"Let's go and fetch my brother."

* * *

1987

"Merle, You 'bout done in there?"

Daryl had just finished up arranging the assortment of doors Kurt had assigned them to move. The day was wearing on and Daryl was worn down to the bone. His arms were so tired that they felt as if they belonged to someone else. He wanted to peel out of these clothes and climb into bed. He was so tired that he didn't even care if he ate.

The doors were pretty unique, as far as Daryl could tell. All fifteen of them were of old wood, painted over a number of times. Two of the doors had stained-glass inlays.

His favorite one was a nice cherry wood. The frame was painted a deep patinaed red. This color accented a brilliantly colored glass tree in the center. Daryl thought it was just beautiful. Catching the last of the afternoon light and the last of his hand strength, Daryl held the door upright to make the sun shine straight through, Below him, the colored outline of the tree illuminated his dirty pants.

"The hell are you doing?" Merle called from the shed.

Daryl didn't reply right away, still enjoying the light show. "Just stacking the doors, like Kurt said," Daryl replied, leaning the cherry wood back into place. "I think they's worth a lot of money."

"Then you should leave them the hell alone, you big klutz," hollered Merle. "Cause you ain't got the dough to pay if you screw 'em up."

None of that was worth a reply. It wasn't like Daryl wasn't used to being told he was clumsy and not to be trusted with expensive things. He pretty much knew all this. Had to agree with most of it, but he couldn't take his eyes off that door. He wondered how you went about making such a thing.

He also wondered if he might like such a door on the little cabin he claimed as his own. Daryl was no fool, regardless of Merle's opinion. He knew he didn't own that little shack in the woods, even if no one else wanted it. Maybe, just maybe, he'd make enough money at this job that he might buy that cabin one day. Really make it his own.

"Hey, bro! Got a light?"

Daryl looked up to see Merle striking a pose in the shed's door frame. In Merle's hand, he held a loose stick of dynamite with a bent fuse.

"Never mind," Merle grinned and produced a silver flip-lid lighter from his pocket. Even from where he stood, Daryl could see the ace of spades engraved on the front.

"Got one right here," Merle smirked. As if in slow motion, Merle flipped the lid and thumbed the wheel. A bright red blue flame shot up.

"No, Merle. No!" Daryl rushed forward, but he couldn't stop Merle from lighting the fuse.

"Relax, ya scaredy cat," Merle said waiving the lit dynamite around with glee. "All I got to do is pull the fuse before it runs out."

Daryl reached his brother and tried to snatch the explosive from his hands. "Are you high? Pull it out! You're gonna blow us the fuck up!"

Merle just laughed and held it high above Daryl's outreached hands, keep-away style. "There's plenty of time," Merle teased. He shoved Daryl away and struck a quarterback stance. "Hey Darlina, go long!"

For good or bad, Daryl did not go long. With complete desperation, Daryl jumped up and grabbed a hold of Merle's outstretched arm. With all of his strength, he tried to pull the dynamite down and take it away. Merle just flexed his biceps and kept his pose, laughing wildly.

"The fuse," Daryl screamed, "is almost out. Pull it out! Pull it out!"

Merle smirked at his brother with pity. It was a damn shame the boy never did know how to have a good time. When Daryl resorted to dropping his legs and dangling, Merle felt his stance give. He may be strong, but even he couldn't hold up over a hundred pounds on one arm for long. Grudgingly, Merle was forced to lower the limb.

That's when Merle saw what Daryl had been screaming about. The fuse had burned down to just a half an inch from the stick.

Shaking Daryl off, Merle reached over and went to calmly pluck the fuse from the dynamite base. His motions displayed a bravado that he didn't really feel. Merle liked to put on a 'don't-give-a-shit' face. He liked to put on a show. And it worked well for him most of the time.

The fuse wouldn't budge.

Merle grunted and tugged again, his mask slipping. It burned down to a quarter inch, still attached. Merle started to sweat.

Daryl was jumping all around him screaming "Throw it away, Merle! Throw it away!"

Merle frowned and licked his fingers. He snagged the sizzling end and tried to snuff it out that way. The wick burned the crap out of his fingers, but didn't go out. Now it had burned down into the base.

Merle looked at Daryl, suddenly serious, and uttered one word.

"Run!"

Dropping the lit dynamite to the ground, Merle got a fist-full of his brother's shirt and shoved him forward. The two of them ran like the hounds of hell were on their heels.

They got one step away.

Then two steps.

Three steps.

A ball of flame, heat and sound picked the two Dixons up and threw them violently forward. The world turned white and something dreadful sucked all of the sound out.

Daryl felt his brother fling him forward an instant before the wave struck. Helpless, all Daryl could do was watch the ground rush up to meet him. The impact drove all the air from his lungs. And then the world exploded in a rain of debris.

The explosion brought the last of the on-site workers running from all ends of the yard. Nearly everyone had already gone home for the day. Kurt and Uncle Joe were the first to arrive, eyes wide in alarm.

Uncle Joe took one look at the aftermath and froze. Next to the smoking remains of the shed lay pieces of the cherry wood antique door Maybelle personally asked he save and install in their own home. The one with the hand-crafted, stained-glass tree.

Maybelle asked for very little in their marriage and Uncle Joe thought the world hung on her happiness. He would do absolutely anything for her. She knew about his long-standing feud with Buck, and didn't care about it. She put up with all his bad habits with nothing more than a playful tease. And she made the best pie he ever ate.

Uncle Joe loved Maybelle with all of his heart. So when Uncle Joe looked down and saw that promised stained-glass tree in pieces, it felt like he was the one that had exploded. It was broken beyond repair.

That's when Uncle Joe noticed the rest of the doors. It was obvious that was once a neatly stacked array of valuable, antique doors now looked like a trodden scrap heap, some drunken yahoo drove a tractor over. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that something big had run into the pile and smashed them to bits. Sure enough, there was his forklift, blown off its tires, not ten feet from the rubble. Uncle Joe felt his blood pressure skyrocket and take flight. This little incident was going to cost him a fortune.

"Joe, look over there."

Kurt's baritone pulled Joe from his revelry. It gave him something else to focus on than the loss of the door. Looking at where his foreman was pointing, Uncle Joe saw Merle sitting on the ground, half buried in blown-up building materials. He was pulling boards off Daryl's slumped figure and was flinging them to one side.

And Merle was laughing like a loon.

Pulse pounding in his ears, Uncle Joe spun and born down on the dirt smeared, bloody wrecks of his two nephews. Those whelps were responsible for this disaster. He was going to make them pay. In his rage, he didn't even notice their two very different, yet alarmed reactions.

Merle took one look at Uncle Joe's charge and managed to gain his feet, boards and wires scattering. "Head's up, little brother. We's about to get our asses kicked."

Beside him, Daryl tried and failed to get clear the rubble. So many parts of him hurt that he couldn't tell one pain from the other. He was about to just give up and just lay back down when Merle swore inventively and ordered him up.

"On your feet, boy. This is gonna be bad."

It was all that Daryl could do, to try to get up again. When Merle grabbed his arm and pulled hard, Daryl yelped so loudly that Merle actually let go.

"Stop being a pussy," Merle said frantically, grabbing Daryl's other arm and hauling him vertical. "Stand the hell up!" He had one eye on Daryl's bloody face and the other on Uncle Joe's grimace. The moment that Daryl seemed mostly upright, he let go and faced his uncle.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Uncle Joe raged grabbing each brother, hard, by the shoulder. "It's been one damn day on the job!"

Giving them each a mighty shake, Uncle Joe took a shuddering breath and continued. He pulled Merle right into his face. "You've been drunk, smokin' pot and fightin'," he bellowed.

He shoved Merle back and hauled Daryl up close, making the boy balance on his tiptoes. "One of my best men had ta go for stitches!" he screamed, shaking Daryl so hard the boy's teeth audibly rattled.

"And you two broke the one, goddammed thing I give an everlasting shit about," Uncle Joe frothed, spinning them to face the remains of the cherry wood door. He flung both boys away and gave a frustrated scream. "I hope you're both happy. Augggggh!"

Daryl started to climb to his feet again, looking for an escape route. His arm ached something fierce and there was blood running in his eye. He wondered if Uncle Joe might let him spend the night in that old trailer before he sent them away. He shoulda known better to let Merle get outta hand that way. This was all his fault.

2010

The sounds of digging quieted down after a time. Daryl wasn't sure if that meant that they gave up on his sorry ass, or if something had happened to make digging unsafe. But he had to admit, the quiet was nice. His head was so foggy that he'd just take a moment and think. He was so cold and tired, but knew he shouldn't sleep.

Faintly, Daryl could hear sirens.

He smirked to himself. The emergency crew had finally shown up. Those boys were always a day late and a sight too cautious to get the job done. He hoped Merle and Kurt had a plan together already and could tell those knuckleheads what to do. All he had to do was wait.

Shortly, Daryl started to drift. It was getting really hard to keep his eyes open. The dim, lit shadows of his underground world started to blur when a familiar sound and vibration gave him a jolt.

Backhoe.

"About damn time, Merle," Daryl whispered, setting off a another round of gut-wrenching hacks. "'Bout time you used your big, fat head." He spat out a mouthful of blood and tried to calm the pounding in his head. The vibration of the backhoe digging was like a lullaby, the sound to him was sweet.

_Tbc..._

_**AN: It took me longer to get the story to this point that I thought. Did you like the dynamite? And what do you think of Kurt? I have plans for him. I hope you are enjoying the tale. I'd appreciate it if you'd drop me a line and let me know.**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_

_**Surplus Imagination**_


	4. Dudley Do-Right

_Disclaimer :__ The Walking Dead, Daryl and Merle Dixon are the property of Robert Kirkman and AMC. Sadly, I do not own these characters. Kurt, Joe, Maybelle and Doc Green are mine. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended._

**AN: Don't forget that in 1987 Daryl is 17 and Merle is 26. I refer to them as 'boys' in that old southern tradition. Pretty much down here, all men are 'boys', particularly those who drive pick-up trucks. I hope you enjoy. Surplus**

* * *

**Dixon Demolition**

**Dudley Do-Right**

2010

Through the rubble, the unmistakable muffled sound and vibration of the backhoe doing its job, traveled straight into Daryl's bones and gave him a jolt. It wasn't a particularly pleasant sensation, but he had felt worse. A lot worse. It certainly woke him up from those drowsy feelings. Drowsy was dangerous.

Daryl stifled another cough, willing the broken glass in his chest to leave him the hell alone. He had to help, somehow. It was just killing him to have to lay there and wait for rescue like a damsel in distress. He'd finally earn that damn name Merle was so fond of, Darylina.

He hated that name.

Once, he tried to turn the tables on his brother. Tried calling his brother Merlene and other names like it. He even tried something stupid like Petunia. Merle just guffawed and asked if he was interested in a date or some such. Daryl never did figure out his responses, but the fact that Merle liked the names took all the fun out.

Sometimes it was shitty having an older brother.

Shitty or not, he wished his brother was right here, right now. Wished the big, loud mouth could help him figure out how to get out of this mess. Merle was good that way.

Daryl wiped the grit from his eyes as best he could and tried to look around. He had to be a good ten feet under the collapsed building, buried deep. For some reason, he could see light. Come to think of it, he had air, too. Better air than could possibly be expected. Now, if he could just get this damn elephant off his chest, things might not be so bad.

His eyes followed the dappled pattern of light upwards. Off in the distance, Daryl could see pinholes of sky. Maybe he wasn't so far underneath as he imagined.

The dust in the air sparked in the thin beams of light giving the dappled patterns colors. Daryl looked at the patterns and decided that maybe the colors were coming from the walls themselves.

It all reminded him of that stained-glass tree, all those years ago. It was the one thing that brought Aunt Maybelle around after Merle blew up the shed.

* * *

1987

"Dammit, hold still."

Daryl squirmed under Merle's iron grip, trying to get away. His head was on fire, his arm ached to the point of numbness and given half a chance, Daryl was certain he could puke.

"Lemme go, Merle, lemme go!"

"You don't hold still, I'm gonna squash you like the bug you are," Merle gritted, patience at an end. "Like one of them big Palmetto roach-bugs. I'm gonna stomp you and all your insides are gonna squish out."

He adjusted his grip on the back of Daryl's neck and attempted another stab at stitching up the gaping wound on Daryl's head. He really needed both hands to do the job right, but Daryl had been less than cooperative. If he let go, Daryl would run. Taking aim, Merle stabbed with the threaded needle.

"Ow! Stop!," Daryl cried out. "It's fine. Just leave it alone!"

Merle ignored his brother's protests and calmly pushed the needle through the torn flesh. Blood ran freely from the wound and soaked into the filthy t shirt. Merle didn't pay it any mind. He followed through with the stitch and pulled the wound tight. One down.

"I knew a fella once," Merle said, feeling his brother quiver. "Liked to collect bugs." He aimed for the second stitch.

"Why would he do that?" Daryl asked. His voice was all tight. Now that he realized it was useless to try and escape, he had resigned himself to suffer through it.

Merle launched his second stitch. This time Daryl whimpered a little, but held still. It made it easier to push the needle through.

"Hell if I know," Merle said, making his voice lighter on purpose. "He wore these thick glasses. Like coke bottles." Merle laughed a little. "Had all these cases full of bugs on pins. Shish-ka-bugs!"

"Like in a museum?" Daryl gave completely up and closed his eyes. Let the words carry him past the stinging.

"Yep. On every wall. He was a weird sucker. All nerdy." Merle felt Daryl relax a little more. He let go of his brother's neck and used the freed hand to pinch the flesh closed.

Third stitch.

"Was he your friend?" Daryl wanted to know. Without thinking, he raised his eyebrows at the question. It just made more blood run out. Merle grimaced at the sight, guilt pooling in his gut.

"Naw, hired me." Merle re-positioned his hands and changed the angle.

Fourth stitch.

Daryl shuddered but didn't open his eyes. "What'd he want you for?"

"Bug hunt," Merle grunted. "Mr. Sunshine Egghead had just moved from way out west and wanted the local bugs for his collection."

"Was Sunshine his first name?" Daryl asked, curious. He never heard of a man named something like that. Musta had hippie parents.

This time, when Daryl raised his eyebrows at the question, no more blood seeped out. Merle nodded to himself on fixing the problem and stabbed again.

Fifth stitch.

"Not exactly," Merle eased the stitch through. "Called him that 'cause of his _proclivities_."

This time, Daryl opened his eyes. He ignored the needle in Merle's bloody hand and the thread going from it to his head.. "What?" he asked, scrunching his brow. Luckily, the stitches held.

"He liked to take _it_ where the sun _don't_ shine," Merle snickered.

Daryl looked blankly back. "It?"

Merle just sighed and rolled his eyes. "I got to get you an education, boy." Merle held the needle in front of Daryl's face and the boy quickly closed his eyes. "Jesus," he said, "Don't you know nothin'?"

"I know a lot," Daryl muttered. "Just don't know what 'it' is."

Sixth stitch.

"Could be a lotta things, 'it'," Daryl grumbled. "'It' could be somethin' in his house, or somethin' he like to eat. Sun don't shine inside houses."

Merle barked a laugh at that. "You bet, son. 'It' can be somethin' he like to eat." Merle tied off the thread and bit it free. The blood from the thread tasted metallic in his mouth. He spat the taste out onto the floor. "Done."

Daryl opened his eyes and felt the wound. Merle slapped his hand away, reaching for a fifth of whiskey.

"You mess those stitches up and I'll beat your ass." Merle doused a rag with the booze and went to clean the wound.

Daryl blocked his hand with a question. "What was 'it'?" he seriously wanted to know.

"Christ, do I have to spell it out?" Merle asked, incredulously. Then he laughed and threw the rag down. "Fine, dumbass." Merle took one hand and slowly curled it into a pointer. Then he swooped the pointed finger around to point directly at his crotch.

Still, Daryl looked puzzled.

"I called him 'Sunshine' because he likes to take 'it'," Merle pointed at his crotch vigorously, "where the sun don't shine." He looked at Daryl expectantly.

Daryl just looked from Merle's crotch back up to Merle. Clueless.

"You been livin' under a rock?" Merle asked, amazed. "Up the ass," Merle practically shouted. 'The sun don't shine up his ass!"

The pieces clicked together. Daryl figured it all out. "That's disgusting," he said, drawing back, looking more like seven than seventeen.

Merle snatched up the whiskey soaked rag and plastered it against Daryl's stitched wound. Daryl writhed and swore, but didn't pull away.

"That's just plain embarrassing," Merle shook his head as he wiped the wound and every last trace of blood from Daryl's pale face. He ignored the clots in his hair. "You need 'the talk' or something?"

Daryl just blushed and shook his head no. There was no way in hell he was gonna ask what 'the talk' was after that. He didn't even like the sound of it.

Unconvinced, Merle just finished his task, chucked the rag and belted down a quarter of the bottle. He slammed the flask down and wiped his lips before asking the question forefront on his mind.

"Damn Daryl. Are you still a virgin?"

There was no hiding from that question. Daryl blushed to his roots and barked out a strained, "No! I ain't no virgin!" He definitely wanted to puke.

"Shit," Merle glowered. "Can't have that." He stared a Daryl's shrinking form for a full minute. Daryl wanted to die.

"I got it," Merle snapped his fingers. "I'll hire you a stripper." Satisfied, Merle picked up the whiskey and took another drink. "I ain't never known a Dixon still a virgin after fifteen," he muttered to himself. "Ain't natural."

Feeling like he needed to disappear, Daryl hopped down off the table, still hugging his arm against his chest. After this latest torture session with Merle, he decided to keep that pain to himself. As he decided to slink away, Daryl just had to ask.

"Merle, you ain't talking 'bout no sunshine stripper, are ya?" he asked, a little afraid of the answer.

The expression on Merle face was priceless. Despite the fact that he asked a real question, Daryl realized that somehow he had just got one over on his brother. He couldn't help the smirk forming on his face as Merle started to howl.

* * *

By midnight, Daryl's arm was swollen twice the normal size.

Shortly after Merle had sorted out Daryl's stitches, Kurt had come by and reluctantly told them that Uncle Joe was giving the brothers their walking papers. They were to pack up their belongings and report to the house by noon. There they would discuss what would happen next.

When Kurt left, Merle had taken the rest of the bottle and disappeared into the room he had picked as his own. Daryl sat on the steps to the trailer. It fashioned a sort of a stoop. It wouldn't take long to pack things up. He didn't own but three shirts and two pairs of pants. They hadn't even been there long enough to buy groceries.

He knew what was coming at that meeting. He'd be a fool not to. Uncle Joe would send Merle back to the stockade and would call child services on his own self. Never mind that he would be turning eighteen in six short months, Daryl would be sent to his own type of prison.

That was just not going to happen. Not if Daryl could figure out how to make things right.

Overhead, the stars shone brighter than the night before. The sky was so clear that he even caught sight of a brilliant shooting star. With a sky like that, how could so many things go wrong?

Merle was the answer to that question. Merle could take a sky so breathtaking and find a way to light it up. In fact, that's exactly what Merle did. Daryl just had to convince Uncle Joe to give them another chance.

Daryl considered what he should do to smooth things over. Usually, it involved apologizing to whoever Merle at pissed off and fixing any damage. Broken things can usually be fixed.

Of course, sometimes it was just a matter of money. Daryl was usually able to work out some kind of labor trade. Since Merle had blown the shed to hell on their first day on the job, Daryl figured that kind of trade really wouldn't work out. He didn't know how much all this would cost, but he suspected it was more money than he had ever laid eyes on.

There was one thing he could try.

Just after the explosion, Uncle Joe had gone ape-shit about that cherry wood door. 'Bout shook his teeth loose, while saying that it was the one thing he cared about. That door meant more to him than just being a door.

It had to be about the stained-glass tree.

* * *

Daryl slipped over the construction yard fence, one armed, and dropped heavily to the dirt. It had been easy to get into the yard, no barbed wire or nothing. He'd have to find something to get him back over later, since he couldn't climb. He shifted his backpack on his shoulders and headed for the blast zone.

The whole place was quiet. Daryl was relieved not to find any dogs patrolling the lot. Even though he had only been there one day, it was easy to find his way around.

His stomach growled like it hadn't been fed in ages, as he feet soundlessly carried him in the dark. The angry noise sounded louder than it should have in the quiet. He was glad that the yard was empty. The noise would have been embarrassing.

The makeshift lunch had been hours ago and Daryl was starving. In fact, he felt a little light-headed with all that had gone down. He'd have to find something to eat soon. Merle had mentioned a vending machine. Maybe he could get something there. The trailer was empty except for Merle's booze.

Thoughts focused on food, Daryl reached his destination without realizing it. When he practically tripped over a broken piece of door, he paused and looked around. Daryl felt the earth drop out from under him. He stood there, stunned, facing the evidence of their first day.

It was like the gates to hell.

Illuminated by the spotty security lights, Daryl could see the frenzied sprawl of the shed sides. It was all laid out like a gutted animal. Black and broken and ruined. Eviscerated. The smell of the ashes was terrible and overwhelming. Broken drywall and insulation were everywhere.

It was a wonder that they hadn't died.

Daryl fought back a shiver down his spine and picked his way through the destruction to the ramshackle pile of doors. The cherry wood one was right on top. It lay in pieces. The shattered stained-glass inlay hung from the broken frame like heavy fabric, torn to bits.

Daryl sighed and squatted down on his haunches, favoring his hurt arm. He shrugged off the backpack and fished out a penlight. He took a deep breath and clicked it on.

Something bendable held the pieces of glass together. Daryl stuck the penlight in his mouth and scratched at it. Lead. The glass was held together by lead. Maybe if he could find all the pieces, he could fix it? Somebody made it, so it could be remade. He'd learn how.

There it was. The answer. Daryl would find all the broken pieces and fix it for Uncle Joe. The door was, well, splinters. But he could fix that glass tree. Somehow.

It took him hours to find all the pieces, one armed and with a penlight. Carefully, he pried out what was left of the glass inlay and put it in his backpack. Then, he gently stored every colored glass shard he could find, wrapping like colors in pieces of clear plastic sheeting from the blown shed.

In the end, as dawn rose, Daryl had neatly stacked up all the doors and sorted the debris into similar piles. All the concrete mix sacks were back in their rows. Well, the ones that survived the blast. He had even raked up the area and thrown away what he could.

Heavy with exhaustion, Daryl was at least pleased that not all the doors were ruined. Some could be salvaged. Maybe they could be salvaged.

Also in his mind as he worked, Daryl worked out the real reason Uncle Joe went ballistic. It didn't make sense, other than being valuable, that the man would care so much for that door. Daryl kept turning it over in his head until the solution was obvious.

Something so beautiful as that stained-glass tree had to be for Aunt Maybelle.

And the thought of it ruined just about crushed Daryl with guilt.

* * *

By morning, Daryl's fingers in that swollen arm had gone numb.

He knew something was really wrong, but it would have to wait until after their meeting with Uncle Joe. He'd tell Merle then. Merle would know what to do.

Daryl made his way back to the trailer by way of the open front gate. In his tiredness, he never realized that the gate had been closed before. He just walked on through.

He found Merle passed out on his bed. After kicking him awake, Daryl headed to the shower to get cleaned up. An hour later, he had packed his few belongings in a garbage sack, put on his last clean shirt and his only jacket to hide his arm.

Resigned, Daryl sat down to wait.

When Merle finally emerged from the bathroom, hung over and carrying a duffle bag, Daryl just tossed him the keys. Together, they drove to the house to meet their fate in silence.

Merle sat with Daryl on the sliding metal love seat on Uncle Joe's front porch. For so early in the morning, the Georgia sun had already steamed things up. Beside him, Daryl sat slumped, wearing an old gray windbreaker, his battered backpack in his lap. Daryl was pushing the two of them on the sliding seat, back and forth, with one foot.

"It's hotter than hell out here. What's with the jacket?" Merle asked, idly. The back and forth, motion of the seat was oddly soothing. The sliding rocker made little creaking sounds with each change of direction. It was almost hypnotic.

"Easier to wear than to carry," Daryl said listlessly. The boy's voice was dry and hollow, totally devote of hope.

Inside the house, Uncle Joe and Aunt Maybelle were finishing breakfast. The food smelled wonderful. They had not been invited in.

Merle slapped at a fly. "I wish they'd hurry the hell up. Not like we don't know what's gonna happen." Beside him, Daryl just sighed.

For some reason, that irritated the crap outta Merle. He knew that this was all his fault. He felt as guilty as Judas. But, dammit, Daryl could at least not take this so seriously. It wasn't like _he_ was the one that gonna be sent back to jail.

Merle stopped the swaying motion of the seat and turned his body. The angry words dripped right out of his mouth at the dejected sight of his little brother. The kid looked so tired and worn that a light breeze would knock him flat. For the first time, Merle wondered if something was more wrong, than those stitches he put in last night.

Before he could say something, the towering foreman, Kurt, pulled up in a white company truck. The huge Ford F350 diesel actually slid to a stop in the gravel drive, the man had been driving so fast. Merle wondered what was wrong with all these people in town, that every parking surface was covered in little rocks instead of asphalt.

Merle and Daryl watched Kurt leap out of the Ford and stomp up the porch. He gaped at the brothers for a minute, before heading to the door. Once swift knock and Uncle Joe was calling out an invite for Kurt to join them at breakfast.

"Son of a bitch," Merle swore, feeling his belly growl. "Now we got to wait for the Ruskie to get fed. Hope they have some borsch."

"Shut up, Merle," was all Daryl would say. He used one foot and started the seat moving again.

After a time past, Uncle Joe finally came out and beckoned the boys in. He led them into the sitting room, past a laden table full of leftover food. Merle could see Kurt and Aunt Maybelle sitting on the sofa, looking serious. In front of the couch were two chairs from the kitchen.

"Guess those are the seats of the condemned," Merle quipped, hoping for levity. The joke fell flat. Sobered, Merle dropped heavily onto one of the chairs and tipped it on the back legs. He sucked his teeth and put on his best uncaring face. It was all he had.

Daryl didn't sit down beside him. Instead, he walked over to the coffee table and set his backpack down on the floor. He hesitated a moment, as if unsure what to say. Then, he just bent down and unzipped the backpack.

Using only one hand, Daryl pulled out the broken frame of a stained-glass window. He laid it gently on the table and then started to stack up wrapped bundles of glass. One by one by one.

No one spoke the whole time Daryl unloaded the bundles. Merle was perplexed. What the hell was his brother doing? Had he lost his mind? Looking at the faces of the others, Merle knew they were just as confused.

When he was done, Daryl straightened back up and finally spoke, keeping his eyes on the floor.

"I'm sorry that things got outta a hand yesterday," Daryl said softly. "I know that was my fault." He shifted uncomfortably and seemed to gather himself. The whole room watched, drawn in.

"Knew that door was somethin' special when I saw it," Daryl continued, even softer. He paused again, and flicked a wary glance at Uncle Joe and then turned to look at Aunt Maybelle. "I know it looks all broken, but if ya let me, I'm a gonna find a way to fix it for you. I wanna make this right."

At that, Aunt Maybelle burst into tears.

* * *

Two hours later, Merle's ass was going numb sitting in a orange plastic chair in the emergency waiting room. Daryl was back there, somewhere, getting a cast on his broken arm.

He had to hand it to his brother. Daryl had Aunt Maybelle eating outta his hand with that sincere "I'll fix it for you' shit. It was like a goddamn soap opera with all that weepin' and wailin'.

The hell of the thing was that Daryl actually meant it. The boy always had been the sweet one in the family. Sweet could get you killed. Merle was just gonna have to knock some sense into him. It was just asking for trouble.

Aunt Maybelle wasn't the end of it. That asshole, Kurt piped up right then and asked Daryl if he had been the one to clean up the yard. Without missing a beat, Daryl declared that it had been both him and Merle. They had cleaned it up together.

Holy fuckin' shit!

No one believed him, of course. But that didn't change things. Uncle Joe gave them a second chance. A probation for his probation, so to speak. They got to keep their jobs...for now.

Dudley Do-Right, the little shit, offered up half of their fuckin' wages, to go against the damages. Uncle Joe snapped that offer right up, but reduced it to twenty percent when Aunt Maybelle socked him in the arm. Then Aunt Maybelle, all three hundred pounds of her, launched herself up offa that couch and proceeded to smother Daryl with those size double Gs of hers.

That's when everyone realized that Daryl had broken his arm.

Merle glanced at the clock again. It had been two and a half hours. Did they run outta plaster? Maybe the sent to China for some splints? Why the hell was it taking this long?

He rubbed his face and squirmed in the uncomfortable chair. Truth be told, he was a little worried. Daryl never did like doctors. Getting him to sit still long enough to get a cast put on could be tricky. Keeping a cast on him was damn near impossible. He was surprised that either Daryl hadn't already escaped, or had sent out a distress call.

"Family for Daryl Dixon," a female voice called.

_Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear, _he thought at the sound.

Merle looked up, relieved. He followed the woman back into the treatment room. Inside, Daryl was lying on the exam table, completely out. His left arm was encased in white, from wrist to elbow. On his head, there was a fresh bandage covering the stitches. He also had a neon-green Band Aid on his chin.

"He was a little...anxious...getting his x rays," the woman explained. "We had to give him something to calm him down."

"What'd ya use, fuckin' elephant tranquilizers?" Merle asked, completely serious. He picked up Daryl's limp arm, the one without the cast, and let if fall back down with a plunk. "Ya sure he's even breathin'?"

"Yes, we're sure," the woman grimaced. She tapped on an x ray lit up on the wall. "Mr. Dixon, you can see here that Daryl suffered a displaced fracture on both the radius and the ulna."

Merle obligingly looked at the film. "Yep, looks like he fucked up his arm alright."

"We set the fracture pretty easily," the woman said evenly. "What concerns me are these old fractures."

"They look healed to me," Merle said, crossing his arms. "Look, miss."

"Doctor," the woman interrupted, looking angry. "Doctor Green."

"Look here, Doctor Green," Merle drawled. "I know about all those. That's why Daryl is living with me insteada our old man."

Doctor Green looked uncertain. Merle could tell that his answer threw her for a loop. He pressed on.

"We both work for our Uncle's demolition company, Dixon Demolition. Now I blew a shed up yesterday. And as funny as that shit was, Daryl here got hurt. That's all there is to it," Merle said with a little forced grin. "Now, if you are done with Sleeping Beauty here, I'll get him back and inta bed."

"You know he's underweight and underdeveloped," she said, crossing her own arms. "I couldn't believe at first that he was seventeen. He could pass for twelve."

"I'll remember that next time we go to the movies," Merle tried to laugh. "Get him the kiddie discount." Merle looked around, but didn't see a security guard posted. They usually send out the muscle when they tried to take Daryl 'for his own good'.

"Mr. Dixon, the x rays show traces of rickets at an early age. That's evidence of long-term, severe malnutrition."

"I'll feed him better now," Merle replied, irritated. "He's just a late bloomer. He'll grow." Merle brushed past the doctor and nudged his brother awake. "Come on, boy. They's circling the wagons here. We gotta get." Luckily, Daryl woke up.

Merle hustled his dopey brother onto his feet and down the hall, Doctor Green hot on his heels. She thrust a paper sack of medication and instructions at him, saying that Daryl needed to come back for a regular physical soon. Merle ignored the sack and headed for the parking lot. He was convinced if they stayed there another minute, a social worker would show up and take Daryl from him.

"Those stitches you put in were as good as I could have done," Doctor Green threw out as a parting shot.

That comment gave Merle pause. Half holding Daryl up, Merle turned to look back. Doctor Green had this young, hopeful face. A lot like his little brother often did. Seeing a free orange, plastic chair, Merle shoved Daryl down into it with an irritated grunt and went back for the paper bag. He ignored the triumphant look on Doctor Green's face.

"I know you care for him," she said, handing over the medications. "I'm not the enemy here. I can help."

Merle nodded and perused the sack. Along with containers of antibiotics and pain meds, there was a big bottle of vitamins and a couple of bottles of juice. There was also a slip of paper with a phone number.

"He was pretty dehydrated in there. He sucked down three of those before passing out," she said. "Daryl wasn't sure of the last time he ate. Maybe yesterday at lunch," she finished, looking at him searchingly. "I won't call child services, if that's what you are worried about."

"'Cause ya just want to help," Merle fired back. "Bullshit. What's in it for you?"

"Just repaying a favor. Kurt Petrov called me. He asked that I take an interest." Doctor Green backed up a step, giving Merle some space. Something told her that if she didn't, he'd take his brother and just run. "My private number is in the bag. You need help? Call. No questions asked."

"Who?" Merle searched his memory. He didn't know nobody named Petrov. This whole situation was getting out of hand.

"Kurt Petrov, the foreman at Dixon Demolition. He's my uncle. He said something about a tree."

* * *

2010

Merle finally broke through to empty space. The backhoe had dug down until it became apparent they had gotten into the ground floors. The detonation devices had only partially fired, so the layers of floors were collapsed or partially open depending on charges. The whole thing was unstable as hell.

Once they were deep enough, Merle used a rope to lower himself into the hole and started digging with a hand shovel. If they were right, it shouldn't take long to reach the pocket they hoped Daryl lay.

And they were right. Not fifteen minutes into digging, Merle broke through to empty space. Instantly dropping the shovel, he whipped out a flashlight and shone it inside.

Panic took over his breathing as he couldn't see anything but broken concrete, wires and insulation. Dust was heavy in the air and choked his lungs. Without thinking, Merle hacked some of the dust back out.

And then there was an answering cough. Almost like an echo.

"Daryl!" Merle yelled into the hole. "Daryl!"

Another cough answered. Then a faint, "Merle?"

He couldn't see him, but damn if he hadn't found his brother!

Tbc….

**AN: I really enjoyed the 'Sunshine' moniker for Milton on the show. It seemed like such a Dixon adage. In my head, the bug guy was Milton.**

**Do you think that Uncle Joe was right giving the boys another chance? Would you have called the cops? Next chapter will be more fun than dramatic. Promise.**

**If you enjoyed the chapter, I'm love it if you'd drop me a line. **

**Thanks for reading! Surplus Imagination**


	5. Silent Bob

_**Disclaimer :**__The Walking Dead, Daryl and Merle Dixon (and the other characters) are the property of Robert Kirkman and AMC. Sadly, I do not own these characters. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended._

**Dixon Demolition**

**Silent Bob**

2010

"Merle?"

It was faint, but unmistakable. Daryl was in there, somewhere, alive.

"Hell, no. It's Santy Claus," Merle shot back into the dark, chuckling. Relief washed through him. "I'm out here checking on the naughty list." Merle shone the flashlight all around. "You are on the top of the fuckin' list."

The clear area looked to be some thirty feet wide and maybe four feet tall. Way in the center, the 'ceiling' sloped upwards out of sight. Clicking off the flashlight, Merle could see thin beams of light shining down. He wondered if that made things more stable, or less.

"Ain't my name on that list," came the weak reply followed by heavy, wet coughing. Merle chased the sound with his flashlight. He still couldn't see anything but rubble.

"That's where you are wrong. Say's here that you managed to get squished by a broken down building," Merle said evenly, searching with his light. "Stupid move, bro. A real Silent Bob move. That puts you at the top of the list."

"Fuck you, Merle. Ain't my fault." The response was even fainter. The quiet ate at Merle's guts.

Setting the flashlight on the edge. Merle used both hands to widen the hole. When it got big enough to crawl through, he paused and called up.

"Yo, Kurt! I'm goin' in. You got a walkie talkie for me?" Merle could hear people shouting. Then Kurt came slithering down on the rope. He wore a backpack and carried a radio.

"You break your phone again, Merle?" Kurt asked untangling from the rope. "What's that, four this year?" He pulled a hard hat out of the bag. Flipped on the center light and stuck it on Merle's head.

"Ain't my fault those damn phones are so fragile," Merle muttered, rebellious. He took the backpack and looked inside. It was the emergency pack. It had everything from water to first aid.

Kurt stepped around to look in the hole. "Hey Daryl, your brother broke another phone," he called out, looking into the dark.

"Son-of-a-bitch," came the reply. "I ain't paying for another-" the words broke off in a fit of coughing.

Kurt handed Merle the radio. "You be careful in there," he said, worried. "I'm sending down the hydraulic lifts. Maybe shore up that space a little."

"Maybe," Merle agreed. "Let me see first. Those lifts are heavy." He pulled himself up into the hole. There was just enough room to crouch. He turned back to Kurt. "You'd better call Doc Green. I got a feelin' we're gonna need her."

With that, Merle ventured in.

* * *

1987

Finally let out on a real job site, Daryl had been stuck with water duty all day.

It wasn't the most exciting job in the world. More of a gopher position than anything. He went from station to station, carrying a five gallon water bucket. Filled, each bucket was pretty heavy.

Each station had two, ten-gallon coolers. One was white for water, the other orange for Gatorade. He wasn't supposed to mix the two up. Each cooler required one bucket full of ice, then a bucket full of water. The orange one required he add the powder to make Gatorade.

Uncle Joe must have thought Daryl was completely retarded, because he explained this process about five times before letting Daryl get on with it.

Since he could only tote the bucket with one hand, he had to make four trips for each station. Five stations meant twenty trips. Well, twenty-five, cause each station also required the he tote the Gatorade powder bucket, too.

Best that Daryl could tell, all those men working must be pissin' pure orange 'cause all they fuckin' drank was Gatorade. He'd no sooner get one station filled up when some asshole in a hard hat would come running and bitch that there was no Gatorade anywhere else.

Daryl was beginning to hate the orange drink. The powder smelled bad and stirring it up was staining his hands orange. His cast would have been orange except for the fact that every inch was already colored in graphic porn, courtesy of Merle.

On the third round for the fourth station, Daryl noticed that work had come to a halt. Had to be fifteen guys were all standing in a group, looking up. Curious, he dropped his bucket and went to lurk and learn. So far, the other men had barely said ten words to Daryl and all of those words involved Gatorade. No one paid him any mind

"The crane's busted. What the hell we supposed to do?"

"Don't look at me, asshole. This is your fault. Joe is gonna-"

"My fault! No way in hell! I told you that you were stripping the gears."

"Anyone try-"

"Tried fuckin' everything-

"Is that thing stable?"

"We're screwed."

Daryl listened to the howl of the melee. Seemed that the guy with the glasses and the pot-belly 'didn't know jack-squat' about operating the crane correctly, according to the tall guy with the beard. Somehow, Jack-Squat managed to strip out the control for the gears.

The beefy guy, who constantly flexed his arms, tried to hotwire the control panel in the crane and shorted everything out so that sparks were still flying from the crane's boom.

The headache ball, near the boom head, was snarled to boot. About ten other guys were pushing and shoving throwing blame everywhere.

Still listening in to the arguments, Daryl looked up and saw sparks flying from the top end of the boom, nearly sixty feet up. Hanging from the main hoist line was a large black metal box with a wheel on the front. A large, walk-in safe. A quick study of the layout filled in the blanks of what the men were blaming each other for.

Jack-squat had maneuvered the crane boom into a too-narrow space to pull the standing safe out the top floor of the building they were supposed to be tearing down. The building was flanked by five stately, three hundred year old oak trees that they were ordered to leave alone. Andrew Jackson, or some famous big-shot, had pissed on one a hundred years ago, or some such. Historic preservation site was the official term.

Not tear down, explode, Daryl reminded himself. They were gonna blow the shit out of the building later this afternoon. He was looking forward to the show. Figured it had to be like some of the movies he'd seen on tv.

Long-story short, the space the boom occupied was too narrow to swing the safe free. Jack-Squat had angled the mobile crane in such a way that they couldn't back it up until the safe was lowered onto the waiting truck.

Beefy's screw-up made it impossible for anyone to climb the lattice boom to fix the problem at the top. Not that anyone was fuckin' volunteering climb the fifty-five feet. The five oaks kept other trucks from getting closer.

To make things worse, the building, itself, was so unstable that no one could go through the inside to get to the roof. Kurt was talking about flying in a helicopter, but couldn't get one until the next day.

They were gonna to break their contract and the whole damn world was gonna come to an end. Or cost like it would.

Something like that.

Daryl tuned out the gaggle of men and stared up at the problem. He then looked at the trees and the building. Seemed pretty damn simple to him. He trotted up to Kurt and gave his back a tap.

"I can do this," Daryl said, getting half of the tall man's attention. "Easy." Kurt barely glanced at him and turned back to the frenzied discussion.

Annoyed, Daryl tapped Kurt's back again. The man turned and glared. "What!"

"I can fix this," Daryl said again. "I'd be easy."

Kurt frowned and shook his head. "Go fill the water barrels. We got this." He turned back and ignored Daryl again.

Daryl sighed and considered his options. On one hand, he should go fill the damn water barrels like he had been told. On the other hand, Uncle Joe might lose a powerful lot of money if they had to wait until tomorrow. He already owed Uncle Joe money, so he figured saving some might a difference in his favor.

Besides, he was sick to death of filling water buckets. A little defiant flame fired up in his gut and made the decision for him.

So, Daryl quickly outfitted himself and headed for the third tree. No one noticed him coil two lengths of rope. No one paid any attention to him tying one rope to a folded ladder. No one saw him going into the taped off zone.

Not a soul noticed him climbing the tree.

* * *

Merle had finished unloading all of the boxes Uncle Joe had set for him and went to get his next assignment. A month had past, since the shed incident and both Dixons kept their noses clean.

It really wasn't too hard. Uncle Joe and Kurt had them working from morning to night, six days a week. Said that they could work off what they owed double quick that way. Merle knew it was just to keep a closer eye on him.

Daryl was sporting a cast on his arm, from hand to elbow. Since he couldn't do most of the heavy, outdoor labor, he was kept on 'light' duties. That meant emptying trash cans, cleaning toilets and painting fences. There were a lot of fences. Merle had taken to calling Daryl, Tom Sawyer, just to piss the boy off.

Merle had been given all the scut work in the yard. Digging holes, unloading trucks and cleaning the worksites. After two weeks of hard labor, Uncle Joe finally relented and let Merle go out with the other men to the jobs.

Surprisingly, the work agreed with Merle. He never knew from one day to the next, what he was expected to do each day. Nearly all of it was still scut work, but usually he got to decide just how to accomplish the task. It kept things interesting.

And Merle liked the company of the other men. Nearly all of them were as rough and tumble as himself. Before the week was out, guys were calling his name in greeting when he crossed the site. He often got offers to share a beer after work. It was a good feeling to belong.

Daryl had been brought out on the job this week, too. Merle felt like things were starting to look up. Felt like maybe this job was gonna work for them both.

Merle headed to the fourth station looking for Kurt, ready for his next assignment. When he got there, he found a pile of men sitting on, or around, the base of the mobile crane, all looking quietly up.

Puzzled, he nudged the guy on the end. It was the crane operator, Stan.

"Hey Stan," Merle asked, looking up as well. "What the hell we lookin' at?"

Stan didn't look down. He kept his eyes trained upwards, hands shading the sun from his gaze. "Silent Bob," he replied.

"Silent Bob? Who the fuck is that?" Merle asked. He shaded his own eyes, but still couldn't see anything of interest. He was about to ask Stan again when he caught sight of something jumping from the top of the third oak tree to a window ledge on the second floor of the building scheduled for demolition.

All around him, the men gasped.

Stan spared Merle a glance before looking back up. "You know, Silent Bob," he said like Merle was supposed to know what that meant. "He's climbing up to the boom head to clear the headache ball jam and fix the breaker box."

A clang of metal banging against brick drew Merle's puzzled gaze. Looking back up, Merle saw a man, Silent Bob he guessed, pulling a telescoping ladder up the side of the building by a rope tied around his waist. To Merle's right, he saw two men placing bets.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Stan exclaimed. "I think he has the right idea. Why didn't I think of that?"

The next man in line, Jose, flexed his arms and snorted. He elbowed Stan hard in the ribs. "That's cause you know jack-squat about every damn thing, puta!"

Merle was thoroughly confused. He watched Silent Bob carefully stand on the decorative edging at the window and slowly start feeding the ladder up. Unfolded, the ladder extended to a twelve foot reach. At the top of the ladder was a grappling hook that eventually hooked up over the window ledge on the floor above.

Half the men cheered. The other half muttered light obscenities. Merle guessed that they were the ones currently losing their bets.

"Why the hell you call him 'Silent Bob'?" Merle asked as he watched the man test the ladder before slowly climbing it up.

Jose peered around Stan's big belly. "Nobody knows his name. The guy never talks. So, we call him Silent Bob."

Couldn't argue with that. Merle watched Silent Bob repeat the process with the ladder to climb to the fourth floor. The guy was picking up speed.

"It's like watching a live-action game of Donkey Kong," Merle quipped, enjoying himself. "Maybe ya'll should call him Mario instead." Merle started mimicking the game sounds as Silent Bob climbed. A couple of other guys chimed in.

Jose just flipped Merle a bird. "He might get up the building, but I'm still betting he can't reach the boom," he nudged Stan again practically causing the big man to slide off the truck.

"How's he gonna get back down?" Roscoe asked scratching his beard, a little worried. "What if he gets stuck up there?"

"Don't be a moron," Stan shot back. "He'll get down the same way he got up there."

"I don't know," Roscoe said mournfully. "It's an awful long way down."

Having reached the fifth and top floor, Silent Bob disappeared for a moment and then reappeared with the ladder fully extended. All the men watched with rapt attention as he carefully swung the ladder out from the roof and attempted to latch the grappling hooks to the crown of the boom.

The first attempt missed. The probing end of the ladder ricocheted off the metal lattice and dipped way down. As one, the men gasped again.

Somehow, Silent Bob managed to not drop the extended ladder. They watched as he pulled it back to the roof and tried again. Merle noticed that more men were making bets. Beside him Roscoe covered his bearded face with his hands. "Can't watch," was all the tall man said.

The second attempt latched on with an audible clang. Merle watched in tense horror as Silent Bob climbed up on the ladder and started walking across the gap on the rungs.

"No fuckin' way!" Merle exclaimed. "He's fuckin' nuts!"

Not a man disagreed.

Almost with a flourish, Silent Bob lightly jumped from the ladder to grab onto the lattice boom. Moving over to the side, Merle watched the man pry open something. Sparks flew.

"Holy shit!" Stan said to the man who couldn't possibly hear him. "Don't pull the wires. Just flip the breaker."

Jose looked at Stan with disgust and leaned over the edge of the truck to pull free a mega phone. Turning it on with a squeal, Jose looked up and shouted. "Don't pull the wires. Flip the breaker."

The megaphone was really loud. All the men covered their ears and winced. Way up on the boom, Silent Bob gave a little wave. They watched him fish around, but then raise both arms in a question.

"Tell him to flip the black switch with the green wires," Stan prompted.

Jose complied. "Flip the switch with the green wires," he shouted.

Silent Bob gave another wave and fished around some more. Inside the cab of the mobile crane, Merle could hear the control board come to electronic life.

"Good job," Jose complimented. "Now untangle that fuckin' headache ball and come on down. Stan here owes ya a beer."

They all watched Silent Bob climb down the lattice a few more feet and work to untangle the headache ball on its short chain. Merle wondered why the man only climbed using one hand.

Merle didn't really understand how cranes operated. Daryl, with all the glee of a small boy seeing trucks for the first time, had drug him all over the construction yard at night, examining every piece of heavy equipment. Merle figured the boy's excitement stemmed from never having any Tonka trucks to play with as a kid. Daryl had explained all the parts of the crane in detail. Merle now knew that the headache ball was used to keep tension on the main hoist line. What he didn't know was what could happen if the headache ball was messed up.

Silent Bob worked on the tangle and finally the steel ball swung free on its chain. Merle watched as the ball swung out and then like a pendulum, swung back right knocking Silent Bob right off his perch. The man dangled fifty feet up by one arm.

"Jesus Christ, Merle!" Kurt exclaimed stomping up to the group. "I'm gone like five minutes and you've got your brother up there? Are you crazy?"

Merle spun hard. "What the hell are you talkin' about? That's Silent Bob up there." Merle pointed up at the sky. "Daryl's out fillin' water buckets."

"Who's Silent Bob?" Kurt asked, confused. He watched, horror struck, as young Daryl dodged the wildly swinging headache ball on its second loop.

Stan turned, white-faced. "You know, the quiet guy with the broken arm. Don't talk to nobody, so we call him Silent Bob."

Merle's jaw dropped as he looked back up.

It was Daryl up there, traipsing around like a squirrel in a tree. Daryl was Silent Bob. The little shit was gonna get himself killed and make Merle watch.

Not today.

Merle ripped the megaphone from Jose hand and screamed up at his brother.

"Daryl, you little shit! You stop fooling around and get back on that boom."

Merle's teeth ground together as he watched Daryl dodge the headache ball again, dangling by one arm. The ball's movement was winding down, but getting closer.

"Use two arms, ya goddamn pussy! Don't give fuck if the other one's broken," Merle ordered. "Pull yourself up and outta the way!"

Daryl flung out his broken arm up, again and again, and tried to grab on to the lattice.

"I don't think he can grip with that cast on," Kurt said, gripping Merle's shoulder hard. "I think the plaster is in the way."

"Oh, he'll grip just fine," Merle said, confidently, watching Daryl grapple with the lattice, legs flailing for purchase. "Or he'll fall and break his neck. I just got to give him the right incentive."

Picking to the megaphone again, Merle launched his assault. "Quit ya ballerina moves, Darlina. You twirl those legs one goddamn more time and Ima gonna rip that cast off ya arm and beat the shit outta of ya with it."

To Kurt's amazement, Daryl stopped flailing his legs and seemed to steadily fling his body upwards finally catching onto the metal with his casted arm.

"Almost home, bro," Merle shouted. "Pull ya-self up and Stan here will buy the first round." He watched Daryl pulled up like a chin-up, folding his lower body up like a gymnast. "You fall and the ass-kickin' is back on the table!" he reminded.

Very faintly, he could hear a 'fuck you, Merle' in reply.

Laughing heartily, Merle watched with pride as Daryl managed to get both feet onto the lattice boom and start to slowly climb.

Kurt clapped Merle's back and ordered Stan back into the crane's cab. Stan had no sooner climbed into the control seat when the headache ball made its last and final pass.

* * *

Daryl's whole body trembled from stress and fatigue. He had been doing fine until he had underestimated the arc and swing of the newly freed headache ball. That frickin' piece of metal had been aptly named.

He had almost died a half-dozen times. In a weird way, Merle's shouted abuse actually helped. Somehow, his brother's words helped him to focus and get past the mechanically difficulties with him arm.

In order to grip on to the lattice, Daryl had to break the part of the cast that looped over the palm of his hand. It took several blows before the plaster gave. Merle broadcasted words pissed him off to no end and fueled the fire he needed to get the job done.

Now, tired and aching, Daryl figured that all he had to do was hang on and wait until Jack-Squat and Beefy could finish the job, back the crane out and lower the boom. Easy peasy, right?

Not with his luck.

Daryl closed his eyes and blew hard, waiting things out. Merle had fallen silent on the ground below. Considering the wrecked state of his cast, Daryl figured he was still in for some kinda whoopin'. All around him, the wind picked up a bit and the air smelled damp. A summer storm was on the way, without a doubt.

As if on cue, the boom of thunder made itself known.

"Fuck! Look out!"

Merle's warning via megaphone startled Daryl out of his moment's respite. He looked sharply around just in time to see the headache ball slam right into his chest knocking him completely off the boom.

Then he was free-falling.

* * *

Roscoe screamed a falsetto scream that contrasted with his normal baritone,

while Merle's heart stopped.

Daryl was knocked clear of the boom, hung up on the headache ball like a worm on a fishing hook. And just like a worm, he came off mid-cast and fell. Instead of falling to the bottom of a lake, Daryl dropped heavily right on top of the safe at the end of the main hoist line.

Jesus Fuckin' Christ! Merle felt like puking. Daryl had always been lucky that way. Sure, the kid taunted death on a daily basis, but always managed to find a way to survive. That's what Daryl was, a survivor.

Merle turned and barked at Stan, still using the megaphone. "Get him down, you prick! You drop him and I'll break every fuckin' bone in your body!" Stan gaped at Merle, but immediately got to work.

Looking back up at his brother, Merle snarled and spat into the megaphone. "Ain't no time for a nap, bro. Ole Stan here is puttin' his nuts back in his sack and getting ready to lower ya down to the ground." Merle paused and looked for movement. All he could see were Daryl's limp legs hanging half over the side.

"Don't make me get a BB gun. You won't like that shit." He paused again. The legs stirred. Merle felt a minute wash of relief sweep through him.

"I need ya to wake up, Daryl, and grab that hoist line," Merle gritted. Behind him, he heard Kurt order an ambulance over his radio. Merle turned the megaphone on Kurt and yelled, "We're not gonna need an ambulance." Merle swung back up. "Because Daryl is gonna wake the fuck up!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. The explosion of sound caused a squeal of feedback.

Up above, the legs disappeared one by one. After a silent moment that seemed an eternity, they all watched Daryl 'Silent Bob' Dixon pull himself up to a standing position, one arm wrapped around the main hoist line.

As one, the entire site burst into a cheer.

Every last man was hootin' and hollering and screaming encouragement. Stan found his 'nuts' and lowered the safe down is a smooth, easy movement. It didn't take two minutes for the hulk of metal to touch the ground.

Merle let out his breath and flung the megaphone to the ground. He joined the tide of men who rushed to the safe and swept up the younger Dixon on their shoulders.

Behind them, Kurt dropped heavily onto his ass, stunned. How the hell was he going explain all this to Joe?

* * *

Daryl felt the safe hit the ground with a thump. His entire arm throbbed with pain, starting from his shoulder and radiating down to his fingertips. He had completely messed everything up again. Wouldn't be surprised if Merle did rip of the rest of the cast and beat him senseless with it. He deserved it.

Just as he attempted to swing down off of the safe, Daryl took notice of the horde of screaming men heading his way.

Shit!

He musta really screwed up this time! Daryl felt panic overwhelm him as the yelling, cheering, screaming men grabbed at his legs and lifted him right off the safe. Instead of throwing him to the ground, or beating him in some riot frenzy, the mob shouldered Daryl and carried him along.

They weren't mad, Daryl realized, feeling awkward as hell. They were fuckin' happy!

And if that shit weren't weird enough, there was Merle grinning so hard it 'bout split his face.

The men carried him along and set him at Merle's feet. That's when most of them realized just how young Silent Bob really was. If anything, it impressed them more.

"Just like a cat, always landin' on ya feet," Merle laughed and slapped his brother's good shoulder so hard that Daryl stumbled. "Let's hear for my brotha, Silent Bob!" Merle told the crowd.

The men cheered even louder.

Things broke up when Joe arrived on the scene. The men all scattered, hoping to avoid a share of the blame. Merle loaded an overwhelmed Daryl into his truck to take back to the emergency room. The two Dixons were done with work for the day.

* * *

Daryl sat in the truck and waited on Merle. Outside the window, he could see Merle and Uncle Joe facing off. His gut clenched when he realized that instead of making things better and saving Uncle Joe money, he just got Merle back into hot water. Daryl couldn't help but wonder if they had just used up their second chance.

A ping of a pebble against the window pulled Daryl's gaze back outside the truck. Merle was waving at him to come join them. Uncle Joe looked furious. He was currently dressing down Kurt.

Pushing hard at the ancient door, Daryl hopped out of the truck and walked over to Merle. Listening to Uncle Joe as he walked, Daryl realized that he had it all wrong.

Merle weren't the one in trouble. It was the tall guy, Kurt.

"Tell me one reason I shouldn't drop your ass right back on the line. You're the goddamn foreman, Kurt! You were supposed to be in control."

"You weren't there Joe, the kid was amazing," Kurt shot right back, total unperturbed. "I'm telling you, he has a knack for this work."

They were talking about him, Daryl realized. Kurt thought he had a 'knack'. For what, he wondered. A knack for screwing things up? He looked searchingly at Merle. Merle just put both hands on Daryl's back and shoved him into the fray.

Uncle Joe turned and stared at Daryl as he came tumbling between him and Kurt. His nephew looked a little wild-eyed as he straightened back up. Joe could see Cordelia's eyes shining out of Daryl's face. In fact, Daryl looked a lot like his mother, while Merle took after Buck.

"Well, son," Uncle Joe boomed at Daryl. "I hear you scaled that building to fix the crane. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Daryl squared his shoulders and looked at all the men.

Merle had this shit-eating grin on his face. Daryl couldn't tell if that was because Uncle Joe was about to knock him into next week and that might be funny, or if Merle was gonna back up Daryl's actions. You could never tell which way Merle was gonna blow.

"Yeah, I did it," Daryl told Uncle Joe directly, meeting his eyes. "Everyone was stumbling around bitching 'cause the crane was broke. Heard Kurt say that the delay was gonna cost you a fortune. I didn't want that to happen." Daryl waited for Uncle Joe to start yelling at him. Maybe take a swing. But that didn't happen.

"I'm sixteen shades of thrilled that you don't want me to lose money, son," Uncle Joe said, bewildered. "But why the hell did you risk your life like that for a few bucks?"

"Risk my life?" Daryl echoed back. "No way. Weren't no risk! It was easy as pie. Them pussies were just too stupid, or scared to do it themselves." He scoffed and spat on the ground. "I'd have got down on my own, too if that fuckin' ball hadn't knocked me for a loop. Didn't expect that. It won't happen again. I promise."

Uncle Joe stared at Daryl. The boy was completely sincere. He looked back at Kurt, who was howling and beating on Merle's shoulders.

"Fine," Uncle Joe conceded, throwing up his arms. "He's all yours, Kurt. Take the whelp under your wing and teach him the ropes. God help the two of you."

Daryl watched as Uncle Joe stomped off, back to his truck. The big man kicked every stone and stick in his path with all the frustration he felt. It was kinda a silly to watch.

"You heard him, Daryl," Kurt said, coming up behind. "You are my new assistant starting tomorrow."

"Always knew you were a suck-up," Merle teased, grabbing his brother by the back of the neck. "Come on, squirt. Let's get that arm looked at."

* * *

2010

Daryl listened to Merle curse and crawl over the broken walls looking for him. Beams from Merle's flashlight danced crazily all around. He wondered if the area was stable enough to hold both him and Merle. Wouldn't it be a bitch if they both fell again?

What was it that Merle had said? It was a Silent Bob move?

Daryl chuckled to himself, painfully catching his chest. He hadn't thought of Silent Bob in years. A lifetime ago.

A flash of bright light, right in his eyes told Daryl that his brother had finally found him. He squeezed them shut against the glare, eyes and head pounding.

"Merle," Daryl smiled without looking. "About time, bro."

_Tbc….._

**AN: Another piece of their history. I hoped to explain how Daryl always seems to know how to get around a situation, much like he expected of Carl in Hangman. I hope you found it believable and a little bit fun. Next chapter delves into old Mrs. Horvath and her influences. **

**I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please leave me a review and let me know!**

**Thanks for reading! Surplus Imagination**


	6. Wile E Coyote

_**Disclaimer :**__The Walking Dead, Daryl and Merle Dixon (and the other characters) are the property of Robert Kirkman and AMC. Sadly, I do not own these characters. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended._

**AN: I've always thought of Daryl being highly intelligent, but under educated. I hope you like what I've imagined about his past. Thanks! Surplus**

* * *

**Dixon Demolition**

**Wile E. Coyote**

2010

Merle centered the light on his brother's face, noting the bloody smirk there, before using the beam to see what was holding him in place. Daryl was half buried in rubble. Most of it was stuff that could be easily moved. Across his hips looked like part of a wall. Merle couldn't see his brother's legs.

"You don't do things by half, bro," Merle muttered as he looked tried to look about the fallen wall. "Gonna make me break a sweat diggin' ya out. And here I was planning on takin' Doc Green out later, too. Wanted to smell sweet, while I tried to get in her pants."

"You ain't never gonna-" Daryl started, but started choking and coughing. His body bowed up a little as he tried to turn to the side. Merle noticed that the wall didn't shift any at the movement. That didn't seem good. "Hit that," Daryl finished breathlessly.

Merle was alarmed to see more blood come out of his brother's mouth. He eased himself down beside his brother and used the flashlight to check him a little more closely.

"That's where you are wrong, asshole," Merle said lightly. "Ole Merle is nothing, if not patient. I'll get in her pants one of these days." He ran a practiced hand over Daryl's chest, and across his side until he hit rock. Broke ribs. A bunch of them. Daryl flinched when Merle hit the spot where the break made the ribs concave.

"It's been twenty years," Daryl gasped. "She don't see you that way. Sides, she's married."

"Divorced. You never did pay attention in class," Merle said, shining his light over Daryl's head. The man groaned and shut his eyes tightly.

"That don't mean shit, and you know it," Daryl whispered. "Sides, if she'd divorced it's probably just to date me," he suggested with a smirk.

"Ha, ha," Merle mocked. "Your pecker ain't been wet in ages. She'd run the other direction as soon as set eyes on your virgin ass."

"Fuck you, Merle," Daryl wheezed. "And fuck your M-80 throwin' ass. I ain't no virgin."

"Boys, boys," chided a feminine voice from the dark. "I think you two have been bickering since the first time I saw you."

Merle swung the flashlight beam over and lit up Doc Green. Relief flooded over him.

The cavalry had arrived.

* * *

1987

"Damned if he didn't ride that safe all the way down."

"Sounds like a regular Wile E. Coyote."

"That he is, Doc. That he is."

Daryl tried not to let his eyes cross as Doc Green shined her penlight in one eye, then the other. He tried to tell her, Merle, the fat lady at the reception desk and that old guy on the gurney that he was just fine and he just wanted to go home. Nobody listened to him.

"Okay, Wile E., did you hit your head on that safe? One of your pupils are dilated," the disembodied voice behind the light asked.

Daryl thought about it and rubbed the back of his head. When he pulled back his fingers, they were tinged a little red.

"Guess so," Daryl said as he rubbed his fingers together. "Ain't bad, though."

"Did you lose consciousness?" Doc Green finally clicked off her light and stuck it in her pocket. Daryl noticed that she wore a nerdy pocket protector filled with pens, Q tips, tongue depressors and three fat lollipops. One of them was green. Daryl liked the green ones.

A snap of fingers drew his attention. He looked up, startled, to Doc Green looking at him amused.

"My eyes are up here," she quipped. In the corner, Merle laughed. "Did you lose consciousness?" she repeated.

"No ma'am," Daryl replied making sure he kept his eyes on hers. Maybe it was a test, or something. Maybe she didn't like sharing her candy.

Daryl had gotten stickers from a doctor once, years and years ago. Stickers were pretty damn useless. On TV, doctors gave kids candy. Daryl expected that he was too old for such things.

This visit to the emergency room had gone better than the last. Now that he knew what to expect from an x ray, getting another film done didn't stress Daryl out like the last time. Doc Green was so nice, that she even let him look at it, explaining what the white areas meant. It was fascinating. It didn't hurt that she was real pretty.

The climb on the crane boom and the subsequent fall onto the safe didn't re break his healing arm, but it did severely bruised his shoulder joint. And he had totally wrecked his cast over his hand. Doc Green had shown him on the x ray, how his double break was healing. She was still undecided whether he needed a whole new cast, or not.

Doc Green moved behind Daryl and started picking through his hair. "I see a gash about an inch and a half, but I don't think it needs stitches," she said. "I'll need to clip a little hair here and clean it to be sure."

"While ya at it, why don't ya just cut that mop all off," Merle said lightly. "All that damn hair makes him look like a girly."

"Shut-up, Merle," Daryl shot around Doc Green. "Don't want to look like some cue-ball like you." He turned blue eyes on the doctor. "You cut off what ya need, but don't listen to Merle, okay?" he asked her sincerely.

"Last time I checked, coyotes were shaggy, not bald," she winked and picked up a small pair of scissors. A few clips later, she pulled out alcohol and swabs. "This might sting a little," she warned. Daryl gave a little nod, but made no sound while she cleaned the wound.

"When ya done patchin' up Darlina here, what say you and me go and get a drink?" Merle asked, checking out Doc Green's backside while her attention was on the cut.

Daryl could see his brother's reflection in the cabinet glass. "I promise to show ya a real good time."

"That's a nice offer, Mr. Dixon," Doc Green said, not pausing in her task. "But I have two problems with that." She patted Daryl's shoulders reassuringly. "I don't think you need stitches. I'm just going to put on a couple of Steri-Strips. That should hold," she told him in a lower voice.

"Merle, Doc. Just call me Merle. I ain't a formal kind of guy."

Daryl could see Merle suck on his teeth and adjust himself, confidently that the Doc couldn't see him. He was just about to warn her, when Daryl caught sight of Doc Green's eyes in the reflection. She winked and went about her tasks.

"First, Mr. Dixon, I don't date patients. It's against hospital policy," Doc Green said while digging in a drawer. She came up with a bundle of white packettes..

"Good thing you ain't my doctor," Merle declared, grinning crocodile wide. "And, no one has to know. We don't have to go out," Merle said, all reasonable-like "We could just go to my trailer."

Doc Green pulled out a pack of butterflies and took them back over to Daryl. "The second reason is, Mr. Dixon, is this cast right here." She tapped Daryl's half-wrecked plaster. "All this 'artwork' tells me just what a horn-dog you really are."

"Don't be like that," Merle said, not looking bothered. "It was just something to keep the boy motivated not to mess up his cast."

"And I see it worked," Doc Green smirked, pointing at the ripped up part over Daryl's hand. "Nice job. And so accurate, too." She peeled off a strip and started patching Daryl's head.

With a heavy, long suffering sigh, Daryl watched the exchange and tried not to puke. Doc Green was saying no, no no, but her body language was broadcasting, maybe, maybe, yes. It just about made him sick. As the Doc carefully placed one butterfly after the other, Daryl wondered if he could call up a little stomach acid on demand and break the spell.

In the end, Doc Green just cut off the part of the cast encircling Daryl's wrist since he only had another three weeks before it all came off and it was already nearly healed. She joked that one of the hoochie-girls Merle had drawn was undergoing a breast reduction. Daryl wanted to crawl under the table and die of embarrassment at the word 'breast', but Merle howled and banged the counter. All that noise just made Daryl's head swim.

Doc Green gave Daryl something pretty strong for his pounding headache and proscribed two days of rest for his head. The rest, she said, would take care of itself.

* * *

On the way back to the trailer, Merle treated them both to double cheeseburgers, fries and milkshakes, double-thick. Daryl picked cookies and cream, while Merle stuck to vanilla.

Merle was in a good mood, pointing out all the curvy parts of Doc Green while shoving fries in his mouth. Daryl kinda listened while dipping his own french fries in his milkshake, cup wedged between his thighs on the seat, before eating them, one by one.

"And those legs go on for miles," Merle declared. while trying to unwrap his burger with only one hand. Neglected, the truck ran one wheel off the road wildly.

"Like you have a chance," Daryl tossed out as he snatched the burger out of Merle's hand with his own half-casted arm. He had to swivel hard to reach around his bad shoulder. "Watch the damn road before ya kill us both," he complained. "My head already hurts like a bitch." He quickly unwrapped the burger, folded back the paper and returned it to Merle.

"Well, ain't you Martha Stewart," Merle chortled, taking the wrapped burger. "Should I be be choppin' on this with my fuckin' pinkie finger out?" he asked before cramming fully half the burger in his mouth.

Daryl rolled his eyes and kept dipping his fries in his shake, trying to ignore how cold the cup felt between his legs. That pill Doc Green gave him made him feel a little woozy, but did take the bite of pain outta his arm. "No, you big asshole. But I'm gonna do just that when ya choke and I hafta Heimlicky your dumb ass."

Merle blurted out some unintelligible response around his overfull mouth. The only effect was to spray the windshield with partially masticated food. Daryl got the general idea and smirked back. Outside the truck, the scenery passed in a swirly fog of colors.

Finally choking down the mouthful, Merle took a much smaller bite the second time. "You sure are a happy drunk," Merle mused. "I wonder whatcha do with a belly full of Jack?"

* * *

Daryl may be been promoted, or demoted more likely, to Kurt's assistant, but that didn't really change much for the teen. Until his arm and shoulder healed, he was pretty much still stuck cleaning toilets and painting the never-ending line of fence.

Each Friday morning, Aunt Maybelle commandeered Daryl's time and took him somewhere. She had some list bent on his ultimate improvement. Daryl didn't much care for the places they went, but didn't feel like he had real options to say no.

It had been like that since Merle had brought him home from the second trip to the emergency room, loopy on pain meds. Daryl hadn't been able to stand up straight when Merle had gotten him out of the truck. Daryl's muscles puddled like a melted crayon and he up-chucked his shake and fries, all right in front of their waiting aunt.

Aunt Maybelle was convinced he was about to die right there on that gravel lot. She rushed over to comfort the 'poor boy' being held up by his disgusted older brother. Regurgitated milk shake and fries were never a pretty sight. When Aunt Maybelle caught sight of Daryl's pornographic cast, she abandoned a retching Daryl in favor of wailing on Merle.

It had been a miserable evening.

Two days after the 'safe incident', Aunt Maybelle collected Daryl and took him to buy clothes at the local Wal-Mart. Up until this point, Daryl had only ever owned Merle's or his Pa's hand-me-downs, or rummage taken out of the church's poor bin.

Despite his protests, Aunt Maybelle forced on him three pair of jeans, six shirts, a couple packs of boxers, socks and a zip-up jacket. All items were of a sturdy, if nondescript quality. She then took him to the shoe department and fitted him with a decent pair of steel-toed work boots.

As if it weren't embarrassing enough to have his aunt fuss over him like that in the clothing department, Aunt Maybelle marched his injured self over to the toiletries and started filling the cart with things Daryl thought were pretty useless. Things like deodorant, shampoo, soap, a comb, shaving cream and razors. The only things Daryl liked picking out were a new blue toothbrush boasting a better reach and toothpaste that promised to taste like cinnamon.

"Can we get some for Merle, too?" he asked Aunt Maybelle with a little worried wince. "Green's his favorite color." Aunt Maybelle didn't mind at all.

After they were done, there were clothes for both Dixons, and toiletries and first-aid supplies. They had toilet paper, laundry detergent and dish soap. There were eggs and milk and all kinds of easy to prepare food. Daryl had never seen so much stuff in all his life. And all of it was going back to their little trailer. Daryl felt rich as Midas.

The next Friday's torture involved the dentist followed by a haircut. Neither thing left a good taste in Daryl's mouth and he couldn't rightly say which one was worst. At least the dentist could report that, amazingly, Daryl had zero cavities. He needed to get his wisdom teeth out at some point, but the dentist didn't even think he'd ever need braces, whatever those were.

Aunt Maybelle was stumped at Daryl's oral hygiene until he told her about the man that owned the chicken farm, Daryl cleaned once a week. That same man was also the town's dentist. Daryl had to show his teeth before getting paid each month. "No brush, no job," Daryl said with a shrug. Aunt Maybelle made a mental note to make some calls.

On the third Friday, Daryl reluctantly went to the adult education center in town and sat for the General Educational Development, GED, test. It was six hours of pure misery. He couldn't read half the instructions, much less most of the questions.

He always knew he was a little stupid. Teachers had been telling him his whole life. Now he had hard evidence that he was a real moron instead. Even the old lady at the test center patted his shoulder with pity when he left. Said that his scores would be available on Tuesday, if he cared to come and get them. Then, the test center lady had a private word with Aunt Maybelle before they went back to the yard.

Daryl didn't speak to anyone else for the rest of that day.

When work was done that evening, Daryl melted into the woods and didn't reappear until dawn on Monday. No one seemed to notice. When he got back to the trailer, tired and filthy, it seemed likely that Merle had been gone the whole weekend as well. The trailer had that empty feel. All of their work clothes still lay in the same pile as they had on Friday, without Daryl to wash them.

Tuesday, Aunt Maybelle brought everyone lunch. When they had all settled down to eat, all of them in one room, Aunt Maybelle came to Daryl's table to deliver the bad news.

The GED test was given in five parts. A perfect score was 80. A passing score was only 40. Daryl had scored 23. To pass, he had to nearly double his score. The task seemed hopeless.

"I don't know what the big, damn deal is," Merle grouched, stuffing homemade potato salad into his mouth. "Ain't like Darlina here needs schooling to dig some ditches." He reached to scoop some more onto this plate, but was beat to the grab by Uncle Joe.

"It's not like we expected that he'd pass the first time around," Joe said, glaring at Merle over the potato salad bowl. "Maybe we can get him some help. What did it say he did the worst in?"

Daryl just picked at his food and kept his head down. It was completely humiliating to have them talk about him this way, like he wasn't even there. When Merle stole his deviled egg, he didn't even complain.

Kurt picked up the report Maybelle had placed in front of Daryl. He plowed through a couple of ham sandwiches while he read. He went over the report a couple of times before speaking.

"The results are pretty interesting," he ventured, stabbing a fork in Maybelle's seven-layer red velvet cake. "And it's not all bad."

"Boy's got shit twix his ears," Merle chuckled, meanly. "How can it be anythin' but bad? I ain't never seen Daryl read so much as a milk carton without stumblin'." Merle shook his head slowly. "He might as well give up the ghost. He ain't never passing."

Kurt looked down his nose a Merle a little and explained.

"The test has five parts: Reading, Writing, Math, Social Studies and Science. High score in each is sixteen," he said, watching Daryl. The boy just sunk lower in his seat. Kurt wondered if he'd just slip under the table and make a break for the door.

"Who the fuck cares about Social Studies?" Merle said around a bite of cake. "Totally useless." Beside him, Joe agreed nodding vigorously.

"Daryl here seems to share your views on Social Studies. He scored a one," Kurt said, keeping his voice light.

Merle boomed out a laugh and slapped Daryl's shrinking back. "What'd I tell you? Useless!"

"His worst subject was writing. He didn't even score," Kurt ventured, watching the brothers. "Reading was another one."

"Ha, ha," Merle laughed. "Maybe we should getcha a TV so ya can watch Sesame Street and learn ya letters."

"I always liked Electric Company," Uncle Joe jumped in. "It's more…..modern."

Daryl just pushed his plate aside, laid his down on the table and covered his face with his arms. The two men hooted and made rude comments until Aunt Maybelle came by and gave them all the evil-eye.

When they quieted down, Kurt continued. "In science, he scored a six. That's only two points from passing. And in math, he scored a fifteen. That one he almost aced"

The table went silent. No one expected that. Even Daryl peaked out from under his arm.

"Say again?" Joe asked.

"A perfect score in math would be sixteen. Daryl scored fifteen. He was nearly perfect," Kurt stated loudly. He placed the report down with a thump. "Seems to me that Daryl's got a head for math. Just what I need in an assistant."

"How the fuck did he score that high if the boy can't read?" Merle asked, scratching his chin. When nobody answered, he gave Daryl a good shove and asked again. "Bro, how the hell ya score a fifteen? Did ya cheat?"

"I ain't no cheater," Daryl said, unraveling himself from the table top. "Math's easy. I just look at the numbers and figure out what they want."

"What about word problems?" Kurt asked. "It's not always just straight numbers."

"I figure it out. There ain't usually too many big words in math. There ain't nothin' to get hung up on," Daryl replied shyly. "I like to figure things out."

"Well said, Wile E," Kurt smiled, while everyone went back to their cake.

Later that evening, Daryl sat on the front stoop of their little trailer and whittled a piece of wood. He had a mind to carve a bird call. He just wasn't sure which one yet.

Merle pulled up in Daryl's truck in the dark. He got out and pulled a big box from the back of the truck before stomping up the steps.

"Got ya something," Merle muttered, pushing past.

Daryl got up and followed Merle into the trailer. He flipped his knife closed and stuck the wood in his back pocket for later. He watched Merle drop the big box on the table and plop on a seat.

"Why the fuck can'tcha read?" Merle asked bluntly. "Your eyes screwed up, or something?"

"Naw," Daryl said quietly. "The letters get all mixed up. Sometimes I can't tell one from another. It's like they swim back and forth. Can't sound out stuff for shit. It's got to be the whole word, or nothin'."

Merle sighed and considered. "Do you even try to read? You know, on your own?"

Daryl just shook his head no. There was no good reason to respond. How did he tell his brother that he was just too stupid to keep the letters straight. Their pa had been right all these years. He was a worthless little shit.

"Maybe you've been trying to read the wrong stuff," Merle offered. "Maybe if ya tried something fun."

"You said it yourself," Daryl chuffed and shuffled on the floor. "I got shit between my ears."

Merle didn't say a word, he just stared at Daryl with an unreadable face. He regretting letting his mouth run away from him at lunch. He thought he was being fun. Thought it might make Daryl laugh off the score. He was wrong. Their pa had been right all these years. He was a fuck up and everything he touched would be wrong.

"What's in the box?" Daryl asked, curious. "You said it was for me?"

Nodding his head, Merle stood back up and ripped open the box. Inside were dozens of vintage Playboy magazines. They ranged in date from mid 50s to mid 60s. Merle liked the ones were the women weren't skinny sticks of bone.

"I won these at poker tonight," Merle lied. "Some dip-shit said they might be worth somethiin' some day, but I doubt it." He picked up the top magazine, a busty blonde from the 1960s, arching her back across the cover. "They's old, but they still damn good titty magazines," he said, opening to the centerfold. "Says here that Miss July likes, well, you can read it yourself," Merle finished. He handed it over.

Daryl picked up the magazine and slowly opened the centerfold. His eyebrows raised as he took the whole thing in. "Holy shit," he exclaimed. "I don't see no words!"

Merle laughed and slapped at Daryl's arm. "I expect ya to read them. Not just jack off to 'em. And them articles, too," Merle chuckled as Daryl turned his head sideways for a different angle. "Thought it might make practicing reading fun," he smirked. "Just don't let Aunt Maybelle catch you."

Daryl didn't get too much sleep that night, but he did eventually sound out what Miss July liked.

* * *

The next week, Daryl finished the last fence by Thursday. His cast was supposed to come off the following day. Kurt had promised to take him out into the field the next week to do some real work. Daryl was really looking forward to being more than just a janitor.

"Hey, Wile E!"

Daryl looked up from collecting the trash. Roscoe was hollering at him from across the yard.

"You got a phone call."

The men in the yard switched from calling Daryl, Silent Bob, to calling him Wile E. Coyote, following Merle's example. Silent Bob was now a title now crowned on anyone making a stupid, but bold move.

Daryl went into the front room where employees were allowed to take calls. No one had ever called him before. He'd barely ever spoken on the phone either. Most of his life, there hadn't been a working phone anywhere he lived. Carefully, like it might explode, Daryl picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

_"Daryl, is that you, child?"_ A thin, elderly voice quavered inside the hand piece. Daryl pulled it closer to his ear.

"Yes'm. Who's this?"

_"I can't believe you don't recognize my old voice! It's Mrs. Horvath."_

Relief flushed through Daryl. It was someone he knew. Better yet, it was someone he actually liked. His spine unknotted a mite as he smiled a little into the phone.

"Hi, Miz Horvath. Somethin' wrong?" he asked. The cord attaching the receiver to the phone base was very long and knotted up. Daryl followed the snarl with his eyes as he listened.

"_Not a thing. I'm just checking on you. How is the big city of Atlanta?"_

Daryl shrugged and then realized Mrs. Horvath couldn't see him. Quickly, he followed up, blushing at his own stupidity. "Dunno. Ain't been anywhere but here. Uncle Joe's working up pretty da...um...dang hard."

_"Are you keeping Merle out of trouble? You know your brother could test the devil himself."_

_And don't I know it_, he thought. Daryl nodded at the same time he responded. "Yes ma'am. Merle's trying hard, for Merle. He ain't been drunk or nothin' since we been here."

_"I thought he might actually try for you."_

"Ma'am?" He was confused. Mrs. Horvath despised Merle. Said so all the time. It was the one thing that could drive Daryl from talking to the tiny, old lady. Merle might be a piece of shit person, but he was still his brother. Daryl didn't take crap from anyone about Merle.

"_Listen, Daryl. I'm not going to keep you. I just wanted to say hi and tell you my daughter-in-law, Erma, said that she would tutor you every Friday morning."_

_Uh-oh. _She knew about the test. About him failing. Daryl felt his gut clench.

"Tutor? I don't think-"

_"Daryl! You stop now. I'm not asking, I'm telling."_

"Yes'm." Daryl could feel the ghost of Mrs. Horvath's glare on him. Nobody talked back to Mrs. Horvath. Not if they didn't want her to come after them with a broom.

"_It's all set up. Your Aunt Maybelle, delightful woman on the phone, is going to take you for to meet her every Friday from eight until eleven."_

"I don't know, Miz Horvath. I gotta work." Daryl peered around to see if he could spot Uncle Joe. Maybe Uncle Joe could get him out of this. For some reason, the old lady could read his mind through the phone.

"_Your uncle knows all about this. It's all settled. And Daryl?"_

Daryl sighed and banged his boots on the table legs. He was stuck in quicksand, no mistake. "Yes ma'am?" he answered, reluctantly.

"_You study hard now. I'm going to be getting reports on your progress every week."_

"Shit!"

_"What was that?"_

"I meant, shoot...shoot, that's a great idea," Daryl quickly backpedalled and lied through his teeth. He could just taste the Irish Spring soap she kept in her bathroom. Mrs. Horvath kept it just for him and his dirty mouth. Daryl learned a long time ago to bite back his words around her.

"_Um, huh. You take care now. I want you to be safe. Promise me."_

"Yes'm. I promise. And Miz Horvath?" Relieved that the conversation was over, Daryl was a strangely sad to have it end. A wave of homesickness for the good parts of his old life barreled through him, making his throat close up a little.

_Pussy_, he called himself.

"_Yes, dear?"_

"I'll try to get down there soon. Bet you can't see your mailbox by now. I'll come mow just soon as I can."

"_I know you will, Daryl. You always take such good care of me."_

* * *

2010

"I thought ya stopped with the house calls years ago," Daryl rasped up at Doc Green, as she settled down next to him. The years had added a few lines around her bright brown eyes, but overall, Doc Green hadn't changed much in all these years. She was a pretty as ever.

"I only do house calls for my special patients," she winked. "Adding another scar to your collection?" Doc Green smiled as she ran her hands over his chest. "You know chicks dig scars." She pulled out her stethoscope, hooked her ears and slipped the round metal part under his shirt.

"Psycho chicks," Daryl responded with a wince. "And maybe some tough Russian biker ones." He stopped and hacked up what was left of his lung. When he was finished, he looked up at her frown. That frown worried him more than the blood.

"Those are the best kind," she eventually replied. Doc Green moved the stethoscope to his back and listened some more. Then she moved it low on his belly. Daryl groaned at the contact.

He could see Merle came back from the dark and set up a portable flood light. Behind him were a couple of workmen carrying jacks. Everyone was working efficiently.

"Merle," Doc Green said calmly, giving up the stethoscope for her penlight. "I need you to get Kurt and figure out how to get him out from under that wall." She peeled back Daryl's eyelids and flashed the pupils there, then grunted. She patted Daryl's chest gently and worked her way to her feet. Daryl tried to grab her hand, but it slipped away.

Picking her way carefully through the broken rubble, Daryl watched Doc Green reach Merle's side just as the lights kicked on. He strained to listen as she leaned in to have a word.

"I feel at least four broken ribs on one side. He definitely has punctured a lung and I think he's bleeding into his belly," she said in a low, but audible voice. "I want him out of here within fifteen minutes. That's how long it will take me to get some drugs into him and stabilize him for the trip. You hear me?"

Merle nodded his head and moved to set up a second light. "On it," was all he said.

Daryl watched as Doc Green looked at Merle walking away with a sad look on her face. The look spoke of a little longing. Maybe one of lost choices. When she noticed Daryl looking at her, she drew herself up and smiled, giving him a wink.

"Hey, Merle," Doc Green said, jauntingly. "I hear you're gonna to try to get in my pants. Don't you ever give up?"

"Not me, Doc. Ole Merle never gives up."

Daryl didn't even mind the pain when he laughed.

_Tbc.._

**AN: This one was harder than I thought. Merle has to walk a fine line between jerk and big brother. A Playboy primer seemed like a Merle thing to do. I hope you enjoyed it and will let me know. And has anyone figured out how Merle caused the building collapse in 2010 yet? **

**I hope you all drop me a line. Thanks for reading!**

**Surplus Imagination**


	7. Dirty Scrabble

_**Disclaimer :**__The Walking Dead, Daryl and Merle Dixon (and the other characters) are the property of Robert Kirkman and AMC. Sadly, I do not own these characters. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended._

_AN: Here is a little more progress. Thanks to Pisces Dancer for the great game idea! It fit right in. _

**Dixon Demolition**

**Dirty Scrabble**

* * *

2010

"Tell you what," Doc Green offered while she set up the IV line in Daryl's arm. "I'll give you one of those green suckers you like so much if you let me give you a shot of morphine."

All around them, Kurt and Merle directed the excavation efforts to get Daryl free from the rubble. Daryl worried, from his spot on the 'floor' that there were too many people in the small space. A collapsing building was too unstable for so much shifting weight. He had to get them all out of here and fast.

"No drugs," he rasped, pushing the oxygen mask aside. "You need to leave. All of them need to leave," Daryl paused to hack up some blood, groaning with pain. "Ain't safe," he panted.

"Merle has it under control," Doc Green soothed, trying to replace the mask. "You just need to stay calm and breathe."

"Merle makes up his own damn rules. He ain't got nothing under control! Get the hell out!" Daryl spat out with as much vehemence as he could muster. It was all he had left.

Doc Green just forced the mask onto his face and held his hand down under the pretense of checking his pulse.

Daryl felt the world start to spin at the lack of oxygen in his lungs. At least the mask helped with that. He ignored Doc Green's chatter and studied the 'roof' of the area just above the wall on his legs. As Merle and Kurt shifted the rubble, Daryl could see the impact on the structure above. It wasn't good.

Ripping the mask from his face, Daryl braced himself and barked out as loud as he could. The effort cost him dearly.

"Stop!" he ordered. "Goddammit Merle, the roof's cavin' in," he finished weakly. "Get everyone out."

* * *

1987

Daryl rubbed plaster dust from his pasty white arm while Merle chatted up Doc Green. The cast came off fairly easily. For some reason, Doc Green cut it off in such a way as to not disturb the 'artwork' which she thought he might keep. Then she handed him the two pencils he had lost inside the cast along with a tube of ointment.

It weren't his fault the damn thing itched so much. He tried to use the rubber end to scratch, but it just didn't feel as good as the lead points did. As a result, Daryl had scratched the underside of his arm with the pencils until they bled.

"Is it hot in here, or is it just you?" Merle said, in what Merle considered to be his sexy voice. Daryl rolled his eyes to hear Doc Green actually laugh at the lame pickup line.

"You are a laugh a minute, Mr. Dixon," Doc Green said. "But I'm more interested in your brother here."

That got his attention. Daryl looked up from playing with the cast. "Me?" he asked.

"Yes you," Doc Green smiled. "I want you to hop up on the scale. I swear you look taller than you did just six weeks ago." She moved over to the tall doctor's scale and extended the height boom. "Come on now."

Daryl jumped down off the exam table and got up on the scale. Merle snorted while Doc Green weighed and measured Daryl standing there.

"Just like I thought," she said, ruffling his hair. "You are up fifteen pounds and you are half an inch taller. Something must be agreeing with you."

He was taller? The way Aunt Maybelle had been feeding him, the extra pounds made sense. But taller?

"Told ya he was just a late bloomer. Why, I grew three inches after I left home," Merle drawled. "Five inches if you add the extra two I got below the belt, not that I needed help there," he smirked.

"Tempting, but I'll pass," Doc Green winked. "I want to keep an eye on Daryl's growth. Bring him back in three months and I'll give you another shot at flirting." Doc Green whipped out a green lollipop from her pocket and handed it to Daryl, but smiled at Merle.

"What? None for me?" Merle said. "I got a powerful oral fixation."

Doc Green just laughed.

Merle dropped Daryl off at the adult education center to meet his new tutor, old Mrs. Horvath's daughter-in-law, Erma. Said he would be back in three hours to pick him up. He had some errands to run for Uncle Joe.

The adult education center always had something going on. Daryl pushed through the front double doors, up the stairs and right to room 222, just like he had been told. The door there was closed and he could hear voices inside. Before he could knock, the door pulled open revealing a teenage girl with red ringlets that spilled to her waist.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the red-haired girl said. She flashed an apologetic smile and brushed right past Daryl. Without looking back, she headed down the stairs. Daryl couldn't help but watch her go.

Never had he seen hair like that. It reminded him of a campfire. _Wildfire_, he thought instead. That much curly red hair was like wildfire.

"Daryl Dixon, I presume. Any relation to Pete Dixon?"

Daryl turned and caught his first glance at his new tutor. She looked nothing like old Mrs. Horvath. "Ma'am?" he replied, confused.

"You know, Pete Dixon? On Room 222?" she asked Daryl with eyes bright with mischief. "We're in room 222," she finished, like Daryl was supposed to know what that meant. All he could do was shrug.

Erma Horvath looked to be in her early 30s and dressed like it was still the seventies, or maybe the late sixties. She was a hippie through and through, from her leather thong sandals peaking out from a printed cotton skirt to her macramé vest and flowers in her hair. She smelled of sandalwood incense. Daryl couldn't help but notice that she was braless. He took special care not to stare.

"Well, never mind. Pete Dixon was just a character on the tv show, Room 222. Since your name was Dixon, I thought you might find it funny."

"No, ma'am," was all Daryl could say. "I ain't never seen it."

Within the first hour, Daryl learned that Erma had married a car salesman that worked all the time. She loved him to distraction, and had to fill her time while he worked. They had been married ten years and had never been blessed with children. Erma was still hopeful on that front. She was secretly afraid of her mother-in-law and liked to call her 'that old battle ax'. And no, she didn't mind teaching Daryl at all.

And she didn't like being called ma'am. He should call her Erma. Daryl just shrugged, noncommittally. There was no way he was gonna call Mrs. Horvaths daughter-in-law anything but ma'am. He didn't want to risk the broom coming his way from the old lady next time he went home. Besides, it didn't sit right with him. She was gonna be his teacher and deserved the respect.

On his part, Daryl shared nothing but the fact he couldn't read well. He figured that Miss Horvath probably knew all about his shitty family. The less he volunteered on that, the better. He nodded his head at all the right places and attempted to read the various passages from different books she had prepared. Then he struggled to write a paragraph on what he ate for lunch yesterday.

It was all a disaster.

By the end of the second hour, Erma called for a break. She led Daryl down the hall and let him pick out a soda from the machine. She even treated him to a candy bar. They sat back in Room 222 and ate their snacks in silence. Daryl was careful not to slurp, or burp. When they were finished, he gathered up the trash and disposed of it himself.

Erma watched the young man, a kid really, clear up their mess. When her mother-in-law had called, Erma had been irritated at the request. Yes, she was on her summer break, but she had plans to write on her book, not tutor some charity project. But for once, her mother-in-law had been sincere.

Daryl was the youngest son of a very bad man. Unlike his drunken and criminal family, Daryl was honest and hardworking. Life had dealt that boy a bad hand and he deserved a chance. The part that hooked her in was how Daryl had been living in a shack in the woods for a couple of years, all to avoid the beatings that the whole town knew was happening, but did nothing about. It was a tale of abuse and woe.

Erma agreed to give the boy one session. She would decide after that.

"It's pretty obvious that you have a learning disability," she told Daryl once he settled down. "Some type of processing problem coupled with dyslexia."

"Ma'am?" None of that made any sense to Daryl.

"Well, dyslexia is a processing problem, but I think there is something more. I just can't put my finger on it, but I can see it in your writing," Erma mused.

"I figured I was just stupid," Daryl muttered, a little worried. "Didn't know I had some kind of disease. Is it catching?"

It was Erma's turn to be confused. "Disease?"

"Dislexa," Daryl replied carefully, wrapping his lips around the foreign word.

With a tinkling laugh, Erma explained how dyslexia described how Daryl's brain confused letters and grammar, often flipping their placement, so that reading was difficult. It was the most common of processing problems and completely treatable.

"It's not like you can catch it by sitting on a toilet seat in a public restroom," she exclaimed to Daryl's amusement. "It's just something that happens. And more often than not, it is associated with someone of higher intelligence."

"Figured I was just a moron. Even Merle can read," Daryl said with a little hope. Maybe, just maybe this hippie lady might help his idiot self.

"Nope, no morons here," Erma grinned. She had to admit that she liked the scruffy young man.

When Merle picked him up an hour late, Daryl was waiting on the front steps of the education center with a Scrabble box under his arm. His homework for the week was to find a book that interested him and read one half hour every evening. He was to write about his day before going to bed. And he was supposed to play Scrabble.

Merle ordered pizza for the first time since they got to Atlanta while Daryl set up the Scrabble board. After Daryl had given up on reading the instructions, Merle explained the rules as best he could without reading the instructions himself.

"Whatcha do his build up words on the board. You hafta play off the letters already down. Scoring is based on the itty numbers on the bottom," Merle said, popping open a beer. "We both start with seven tiles. You go first."

Daryl looked at his tiles and couldn't come up with a word to save his life. "I can't," he finally said. "I don't know any."

Merle sighed and laid down four tiles and wrote down is score. He was gonna need a lot of beer to get through this.

WORD

After a moment, Daryl nodded. That word he could read. He stared at his letters but couldn't come up with something. "I don't know," he said again. "Don't know where to start."

"What ya need is a dictionary," Merle suggested as he rose to answer the door. He paid the delivery guy and brought a piping hot pepperoni pizza into the tiny kitchen. It smelled wonderful. Daryl was missing.

"Yo, bro! Pizza's here," he hollared, helping himself to the first slice. Merle figured this game of Scrabble was gonna last maybe ten more minutes before Daryl got frustrated and flung the board across the room. That would suit him just fine. It was a stupid game anyway.

Daryl came back into the room with a Playboy in his hand. He snagged a piece of pizza while he studied one of the pages. Carefully, he added the tiles while he completely covered his slice of pizza in crushed red pepper.

T

WORD

A

T

"Twat!," Merle choked on his pizza. Daryl looked smug. "Ya didn't tell me we was playing dirty Scrabble." Merle made his move.

T

WORD

A

TITTY

"That one was a double word score," Merle made note on the paper. "Fuckin' A!"

T

WORD

A

TITTY

...H

...R

...O

...B

Daryl added his word and looked at the paper. "Ya cheating!" he accused. "There ain't no way you already have 300 points."

"I get extra every time you put a word down and don't read it out loud," Merle explained, beginning to enjoy himself. "And, if ya use less than four letters, I get half ya score each time."

"That ain't in the rules. You makin' that shit up," Daryl yelled.

Merle flung the rules back at his brother nabbing another slice of pizza. "You think I'm wrong? Go ahead and read 'em yourself."

"Asshole," Daryl said and gave Merle a dirty look. He glance at the rules but sighed. Until he could read better, it was Merle's rules or no rules. Daryl grudgingly complied, with a little help with the sounding out from Merle.

The game quickly progressed. O became ORGASIM, which branched to SEMEN, which led to NAKED.

"This is fun," Daryl laughed while sounding out CLITORIS. That one was really hard to get. Daryl said so, while laughing through a mouth of pizza.

"And don't I know it," Merle banged on the table and howled.

The two brothers played dirty Scrabble half the night.

* * *

2010

Merle paused at his brother's sharp command.

"Stop! Goddammit Merle, the roof's cavin' in!"

Merle looked up and saw what Daryl was talking about. The displaced walls they were moving were undermining the sketchy support on the roof above. One wrong move and the whole thing was going to come crashing down.

"Get those lift's in here," Kurt roared, seeing the same thing himself. "We're almost home free," he told Merle. "Just a little more and I can jack that beam up and pull Daryl out. Then we can all get the hell out of here."

Merle studied the ceiling. He was no engineer like Kurt and he didn't have a quarter of the instinct that his brother did, but to him that roof looked ready to fall right on top of them all. He had to lay his bets on Kurt, because all he knew was that he had to get Daryl out. Merle nodded and moved out of the way as Kurt directed where to place the lifts.

Merle crouched next to his brother and gave Doc Green a searching look. All these years, and all that flirting between them, he had never used her first name. In fact, he wasn't even sure what it was.

"How's he doin', Doc?"

"Stubborn jackass, like always," Doc Green tried to smile and failed. "Won't let me give him anything for the pain."

"That right, Darlina?" Merle asked his brother. The flecks of blood on the inside of the mask were driving nails into his gut. This was all his fault. "You got a thing for pain?"

Daryl grabbed Merle's arm and pulled him down to his level. He pushed the mask aside. "Ya gotta get the Doc out, Merle. Got a bad feeling." Daryl pulled himself up on one elbow, trying to get leverage on Merle's arm. "I ain't worth her dyin;"

"Don't getcha panties in a wad," Merle pushed Daryl flat. He could feel his brother gasping for air through the muscles in his chest. "I got this."

"I'm not leaving. He needs to be monitored all the way to the hospital," Doc Green said, stubbornly.

"I have to agree with Daryl," Merle declared, checking out Kurt's progress. The taller man had sent away the other workers and was extending the lifts himself.

Merle looked at Doc Green and saw a syringe ready in her hand. He took it from her and stood up. "Time for you to leave."

"I can't," she faltered. "I just can't!" She burst into tears as Merle pulled her roughly to her feet and hauled her toward the hole.

"You got to trust me," Merle growled. "I been taking care of Daryl his whole life. I got this."

He shoved Doc Green through the hole into the waiting arms of Roscoe. "We'll be out shortly."

Merle ignored Doc Green's pleadings and headed back to Daryl. He brother was completely gray except for the sprayed blood. He looked mostly dead already.

Daryl cracked his eyes and saw his brother's grim face. He pushed as Merle and whispered, "Go."

Merle shook his head. "You and me, bro. It's just you and me." With that, Merle uncapped the syringe and shot the morphine into the IV line against Daryl's protests. It took only seconds for Daryl to go completely still.

_Tbc..._

**AN: I'm starting to get worried for Daryl myself, and I'm the one writing this! **

**I hope you enjoyed the chapter with all the flirting and quirky Erma Horvath. **

**I'd love to hear for all of you. And I really love ideas! Please drop me a line.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Surplus Imagination**


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